


Keep Me Together at the Seams

by RiaTheDreamer



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Depression, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Grif has abandonment issues, Injury, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Nightmares, Recovery, Self-Esteem Issues, Spoilers for s15 e21
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2018-12-20 08:11:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 39,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11916771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiaTheDreamer/pseuds/RiaTheDreamer
Summary: There are some things the Hate Glue cannot stop from falling apart. Himself, for example.





	1. Pause. Replay.

**Author's Note:**

> !!Spoilers for s15 e21!!

“That’s not what it looks like,” Simmons says, jaw instantly clicking shut, because it is quite hard to deny just how much this looks like Simmons staring into Jax’ helmet cam with Dylan asking questions in the background and Simmons answers them all.

Maybe he can try explaining that this is in fact Gene, really, and the reason why Dylan is interviewing him is because… Ah, it won’t work. No way that Gene was cool enough to know Esperanto. Besides, his voice had been a tone too annoying to be mistaken for Simmons’.

Which leaves Simmons with the job of explaining just why there is a video of him denying his friendship with Grif.

He knows Grif has the footage, he just forgot those clips even existed. Only a day after settling down back on Chorus Grif had asked for all the tapes Jax had been willing to share. And the cameraman had been more than happy to show behind-the-scenes recordings.

When Simmons had asked Grif had explained that he wanted an unedited version of just what had happened while he had been gone.

Apparently Sarge has a habit of turning the spotlight towards Red Team (or more correctly; the reddest of the reds = Sarge) and leaving out the minor and blue details which in this case also includes the whole Sarge-betraying-his-team confusion. Tucker on the other hand likes to put focus on, well, _Tucker_. Caboose’s stories somehow always manage to involve bunnies. Donut spends too much time on the details no one wants to hear about (and no one really wants to hear about the interior decorating inside Temple’s underwater lair). The Freelancers were still too beat to answer questions and Dylan had been too busy and Simmons…

Well, Grif is yet to ask Simmons for his version of their adventure.

But Past-Simmons has no problem sharing his opinions, right there on the holographic screen, opening his big fucking mouth when Dylan asks him a simple question:

_“-thought you were close with Grif. Weren't you two friends?”_

_“N-no, friends have things in common. Shared interests, common sense of humor. Grif and I were practically different species. Seriously, I did a DNA test on him once-“_

Simmons swallows but there is no spit in his mouth. His tongue just ends up being uncomfortably stuck to his palate, preventing him from speaking.

Grif is in his bed which is literally a nest filled with too many worn blankets and empty snack packages and… what looks like an impressive amount of movie discs. Simmons can at least see three _Star Wars_ films from here. Has Grif been planning a movie marathon without inviting Simmons?

There are also some movie titles he does not recognize, as well as Donut’s favorite – _Legally Blond –_ which Grif loathes with his entire being, and Simmons can also see _Reservoir Dogs – The Remake_ (as in the Blood Gulch remake, not _Reservoir Bitches_ ) and does Tucker know of this? Is the movie night for Donut and Tucker? Is Simmons invited?

_“-Do you want to know how much pygmy sloth he has in him? Because it's a lot.”_

Why is it Grif decided to watch Simmons’ shitty interview instead of a shitty but at least somewhat entertaining movie?!

Finally tearing his tongue lose, Simmons leaps for the remote.

 “Okay, maybe it’s kinda what it looks like. But, I, uh, I was-“

Grif’s face looks oddly neutral. And there are several things to be freaked out about, like Simmons denying any trace of a friendship with him, Simmons comparing him to a sloth, Simmons admitting to having done a DNA test on him… Oh god, what if he asks just how Simmons got a hold of the sample?

Simmons’ mouth is busy swallowing his own tongue and his mind is still trying to come up with excuses (he had been angry/ no- sad/ no- confused / no- hurt / no- tired / no- …) but his hands reach for the remote. He presses random buttons, trying to pause or jump forwards, anything to get himself to stop talking-

Something works and the screen flickers for a second before jumping to a completely different scene.

Simmons breathes in deeply in relief. When he turns his head to look at Grif he sees that his teammate is still sprawled against his pillows, a blanket wrapped around himself and his hand is moving chips from the bag to his mouth while his eyes remain glued to the screen. Just like every other movie night, really.

But life hates Simmons, naturally, and he should have known that by now. He freezes, spine going uncomfortable stiff, when he realizes he has only manages to change to another interview and it is not exactly better…

It is Tucker.

“ _They say a chain is only as strong as its weakest link. Grif wants to quit? Good riddance! I'm sick of carrying his fat ass anyway-”_

Simmons turns around to face the screen where Tucker’s visor is confidently staring into Jax’ camera.

_“-Honestly, we could probably lose a few others while we're at it. Donut for starts. Simmons, Sarge, Lopez. Red Team. We're just being honest, right? I'm team leader, I'm the one who matters!”_

Simmons is only wearing his undersuit because armor is no longer needed. They are on Chorus, safe, and the remains of the Blues and Reds are rotting in their cell – armor is unneeded but Simmons cannot help but feel exposed. He misses his helmet that could have hidden his shocked and hurt and confused expression that takes shape while Tucker speaks.

“He- _what_?!” Simmons sputters when Tucker finally shuts up. The screen goes black before it cuts to Jax’ slow close-up of skull on the abandoned planet. “He never- He never said that! Well, not to _us_! I- do you think he meant that? That’s not fair, he’s- he’s being… _We_ didn’t quit, why is he…”

And then he bites his tongue, realizing just what he has hinted at, and a bitter taste fills his mouth. His head snaps towards Grif who is still sitting relaxed in his bed. He is munching on a chip.

His bored expression has not changed, and that has to be a good sign. On the screen behind Simmons Jax is trying to take a selfie of himself by staring into his reflection in a broken window.

Simmons swallows again. He cannot remember why he went to Grif’s room in the first place. He wishes he hadn’t.

He… Right, there had been a meeting about what to do next. With their rather rushed arrival they had simply just moved into their former quarters. Kimball had quickly found a room for Kai as well but…

Home is apparently really hard to define when adventures always dragged them across the universe.

They had been talking about what to do when Wash is released from the hospital, if they were staying or… And Grif had not been there to say his opinion because Grif had refused to show up and so Simmons had to go drag him out of his room that he had managed to get messy within the first hour he was back in there.

So Simmons had bravely entered the pigsty and had found Grif watching the footage which was… weird. Unexpected. Simmons would rather have given him the story himself but… Yeah, he would have left out the interview with Dylan. But only because it had been a minor detail and Simmons had not even meant it so it was unimportant and there had been no need for Grif to know about that-

Simmons rubs the back of his neck. “So, uhm, Tucker is a dick.”

“Newsflash,” Grif replies with a snort. He turns his bag of chips around and shakes it. When he is convinced it is empty he throws it on the floor.

Simmons really tries not to comment on it but the floor is already littered and the trash can is right over there. A displeased sound leaves his lips.

Grif rolls his eyes. His left hand, the pale and freckled one, reaches under a pillow and finds a half-squeezed snack cake. Normal behavior. Grif is always snacking.

“I, uhm…” Simmons looks around. The room is darkened but he can Simmons can see the snack wrappers and the empty cans and the movie discs. “You’re having a movie night?”

Grif has not commented on the interviews. So Simmons should probably not bring it up then. That would be awkward and Grif hates awkward, and Grif has been acting normal and calm and bored and casual during the entire scene so he probably does not care and Simmons is making a big deal out of it. Why talk about it then? There are a lot of things they don’t talk about.  It’s why they are still capable of talking about all the normal and pleasant and not-awkward things.

Something flashes across Grif’s apathetic expression but it’s gone before he Simmons can read it. “Nah.” He yawns and swallows the rest of the cake.

“Oh.”

On the screen behind them Sarge is shouting out movie titles for some reason. There is a giant flag in the background. Simmons really hopes Grif does not ask into that because honestly Simmons has no idea of what is going on.

“Mind turning that off?” Grif nods towards the remote that Simmons is still holding. He pressed the off button with his metal thumb and the room falls too quiet. “I’m gonna nap,” Grif then declares, adjusting his position. Something rustles underneath his thigh, and a disc looks dangerously close to break from the pressure.

“It’s 5pm,” Simmons says flatly, his cyborg eye always keeping him aware of the time. And the current temperature in Blood Gulch because of course Sarge installed such a feature.

“Naptime. How do you not know the schedule by now?”

Simmons huffs. He is suddenly aware of the stuffed air in the room. It’s giving him a headache he does not have the time to deal with. “I’ll leave you to it then.”

“Nice.”

Grif has closed his eyes, obviously waiting for Simmons to leave.

For his sake Simmons tries to hurry up but he slips on a smooth wrapper on the floor. He curses when his flesh knee makes contact with the metal bedframe. “For fuck’s-“

Something slides out from the space between the floor and the mattress. MREs, Simmons realizes as two of them lands on his foot. He shakes them off, accidently shoving his limb against five more.

He thinks about what to say and then goes with the most obvious. “Kimball is gonna kill you if she finds out you’re stealing rations again.” A good friend gives his friend warnings like that. It’s only fair.

Grif shifts in his bed. “Then don’t tell her.”

Simmons wants to argue because there is no logical reason to hoard food when they are giving daily meals anyway but the air is too heavy in here and Grif is probably already half-asleep and Simmons just really wants to leave already. “Fine. But you owe me.”

Grif mutters something into his pillow.

Simmons escapes. The door slides closed behind him. The air outside Grif’s room is much cleaner. It dulls his headache, just a little. At least there is no smell to make his eyes water.

For a moment Simmons just stands there. He breathes in fresh air, deep breaths. Deep breaths are always good.

Simmons is staring at the floor, trying to clear his head, when he suddenly becomes aware of the muffled noise from inside Grif’s room. Voices, but not Grif’s.

He has turned on the TV again.

Simmons stares at the door until his head starts pounding. He should not knock. Grif obviously wants some alone time. Without Simmons. That’s fair.

He turns away and strides down the hallway with firm steps.

Simmons has a Blue to strangle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. I'm Ria. I sleep too little and write too much. Here's another WIP. What am I doing?


	2. Quiet Voice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You know I was just talking bullshit, right?”
> 
> “So how about not talking bullshit to a reporter. With a camera. Which was filming.”
> 
> Tucker snorts. “Look, we’re all a bunch of assholes who say stuff we don’t mean.”

Simmons knows exactly where to find Tucker. It just requires some logic to track him down, and Simmons, of course, is very logical. He would actually call it one of his defining traits – despite how most people would just use the word to call him a nerd.

Since Wash is still hospitalized it means he can find Tucker right next to his bed. It is really that easy to track him down.

While the Freelancer is pretty much out of it due to the quite heavy drugs, it seems like he appreciates the company. Probably. He seems calm but, well, Grey makes sure to keep him sedated so who knows what causes his tranquility?

No matter what, people would keep visiting him because of the simple reason that it is rather amusing to hear what Wash high on drugs has to say. In the beginning he had stuck to Disney songs but later it had evolved into weird but rather charming nicknames for them all, as well as pure nonsense from time to time.

Pretty much half of Chorus has already been by his hospital room to send him their best wishes for a swift recovery, and an impressive amount of get well cards has begun to pile up in the corner. At least seven of them are written by Matthews.

The Private had managed to track down Grif almost immediately after they landed, and judging from Grif’s slumped shoulders, he would have preferred some distance. Simmons found that rather unfair – at least Matthews was polite enough to give them a proper greeting unlike Bitters who had just told Simmons “You look like shit” the moment he had taken off his helmet.

As always Tucker is sitting in the chair next to the Freelancer. He is recovering well, and Doctor Grey has informed them there will be no lasting damage. Carolina is resting in her own room next to her teammate, and she has proven to be the most difficult patient despite Wash having the most threatening injury.

Simmons just admires Grey’s courage – she is the only one scary enough to convince Carolina to stay in bed for a week, so she can receive some much needed rest and that they can get her vitals under control. The rest of the group had been through a checkup as well but they had just suffered from bruises and other sores. And after some tests it had been made clear that Grif did not have a concussion but had escaped with only a bruised face.

It still causes him to have headaches, however, which is probably why he sometimes withdraws to his room. His bruises are starting to fade and Simmons takes comfort in that.

Simmons can still feel the uncomfortable, heavy air from Grif’s room, but he gulps and pushes aside the weird, cold, anxious emotions that have been gnawing his insides ever since hearing his own voice say those words. He doesn’t remember sounding that harsh but video recordings always screw up your voice, right?

He decides to focus on the anger instead, a small burning knot under all the cold, and the warmth seems to spread as he recalls Tucker’s stupid opinions spoken with a way too confident voice and…

The anger settles comfortably in his stomach, making his steps more firm and keeping his words from stuttering. As he marches into the hospital room, he already has his mouth open to shout and Tucker looks up at him, surprised by his sudden entrance, and now Simmons is going to teach him a lesson-

The air slowly leaves his lungs as he realizes that he is in fact standing in the middle of a hospital room. In the hospital where Grey works. _Oh_.

Simmons knows he is brave. You know, one of the mighty heroes of Chorus and all that. Saving lives. Selfless acts. Totally brave. But not _that_ brave.

Tucker is still looking at him with a raised eyebrow, clearly expecting _something_ from Simmons.

Keeping his voice low, Simmons marches to the other side of the bed and hisses, “I am going to yell at you.”

“Oh.” Tucker stares directly into Simmons’ scowl. “I probably wouldn’t do that here if I were you.”

“I know.” Simmons’ eyes flicker to Wash who is asleep. The bandage around his neck is still there but no signs of blood or anything. They haven’t managed to get rid of the bags beneath the Freelancer’s eyes – he still looks like shit. Peaceful and not-bleeding shit, at least. “Which is why we’re going out in the hallway.”

“Why should I go out in the hallway with you if I know you’re going to yell at me?”

“ _Because_ ,” Simmons hisses, feeling his anger grow stronger alongside his headache, “you are being a fucking ass-“

“Excuse me.” Doctor Grey magically appears in the doorway, scolding Simmons’ rising voice before he is aware of it himself. “I could not help but notice that _someone_ seems to forget we are in a hospital where we use our quiet voice.”

Her sing-song voice makes Simmons go pale with fear. “Sorry,” he says, and just to be sure he repeats the word again in a whisper this time, “ _Sorry_.”

Grey nods happily before disappearing as quickly as she showed up.

The fear fades from Simmons’ expression when he looks at Tucker again. The irritation is still there, hot and distracting.

“Okay, what did I do to get you that riled up?”

Something inside of Simmons finds it both infuriating and satisfying that Tucker cannot remember his own insults.

Simmons crosses his arms, refusing to make it easy for him. “You can just have it your way  - Red Team’s done. No more Blue Team problems. Grif was right – they suck.”

“ _What?!”_ When a shadow of Grey can be seen in the doorway again, Tucker tries to hide his exclamation with a cough. “What?” he says again, calmer. “Since when do you agree with Grif? And what the fuck are we talking about?!”

“ _Your interview_.”

“My- _oh_.” Tucker’s mouth fall open in a stunned round _o_. He reaches up to rub the back of his neck, suddenly looking sheepish. “Right. That interview.”

“Yeah.” Simmons huffs loudly. “ _That_ interview.”

Tucker is fidgeting with the edge of Wash’ blanket. Simmons is not quite sure of where to look any longer. The anger is seeping out of him; it needs shouting to be kept fed, and Simmons has not been allowed to shout and Tucker, surprisingly, has not screamed back at him.

“You know I was just talking bullshit, right?”

“So how about not talking bullshit to a reporter. With a camera. Which was filming.”

Tucker snorts. “Look, we’re all a bunch of assholes who say stuff we don’t mean.”

“…are we… are we feeding the cats again…?” Wash mutters, voice agonizingly hoarse.

It is a surprise for both of them to see the Freelancer somewhat awake, blinking up at them with glassy eyes. Tucker sighs. “Yeah, Wash is definitely one of the persons who don’t mean anything they are saying right now. Go back to sleep, you idiot.”

His voice is gentle and affectionate, and it seems to work since Wash nods off the second afterwards.

When Tucker stares at Simmons again his eyes have a tired look in them. A part of Simmons wishes they could just have had a shouting match instead.

“So Grif got mad and said some stuff. I got mad and said some stuff. And I’m pretty sure you got mad too,” Tucker points out with a small shrug.

Yeah, Grif had said some stuff. Stuff that hurt and had forced the air out of his lungs, like a punch to the stomach. It had kept Simmons from screaming and whimpering and shouting at Grif, even though that had been all he wanted to do. But, well, there had not been much time to shout at Grif since they had left him behind immediately.

“We all know we don’t mean it,” Tucker continues, trying to gain eye-contact with Simmons. “And what I said was bullshit. I… I learned my lesson, you know.” He tilts his head to briefly look at the sleeping Wash. “Without you guys we would have been royally fucked.”

They fall quiet after that. Simmons is not really sure what to shout at him, and he is not even sure he wants to shout anymore. Instead he shifts nervously. “ _I_ didn’t see the interviews- wait, fuck, I mean _I_ did, but it should have been _we_. _We_ watched the interviews. As in: Grif saw them too.”

Tucker frowns. “Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“So did he want to shout at me? You should tell him Grey is here all day.”

“No… He- I don’t think he cared.” Simmons frowns, recalling Grif’s bored expression. It would help if Grif would just stop wearing an apathetic look on his face all the fucking time. “I think. I mean, he didn’t seem angry.”

“Well, there you go.” Tucker sends him a smile that he finds a bit too comforting. “Grif knows the deal. He’s good at spotting bullshit.”

That is true. Chances are their meeting with the Blues and Reds would have gone a whole lot differently had Grif been with them. But Simmons tries not to think of such _what if_ ’s. “That’s true…”

“Hey, do you think Dylan is going to use those interviews?” Tucker suddenly asks, his voice one tone lower than before.

A shudder travels up Simmons’ spine. “I hope not.”

The moment with uncomfortable silence lasts too long. Wash mutters something about chickens in his sleep. Tucker smiles softly for a second.

“Did- did Grif ask you over for a movie night?” Simmons grabs one of the many questions terrorizing his brain and says it out loud. He is not sure if a _yes_ or a _no_ will comfort him the most.

Tucker’s eyes widen slightly in surprise. “No? What, trying to plan a private thing?”

He winks and Simmons sighs. He wishes he could find it funny. “No… I was just thinking it could be good. You know. A movie night. For all of us.”

“Sure. Hell, we all know it’s been a while. And I know just which movie that would be _perfect_ -“

“We are not watching _Reservoir Dogs_!” Simmons barks loudly enough for Grey to show up again.

“ _Quiet voice_!” she shrieks before continuing her patrol down the hallway.

Simmons pretends not to have seen the blood on her gloves. He is too tired to care about her latest patient. While the war is over on Chorus, rebuilding takes it tolls. Simmons knows a lot of the former soldiers still wear their armor to secure the dangerous areas; climbing through ruins and dealing with remaining mines.

The communicator in Simmons’ pocket vibrates. It works as their messaging system when they are not wearing helmets, and he opens it to see a text from Donut.

 _Grif is asking for you_. Followed by twenty-three hearts and smileys. Some of them express emotions Simmons has never felt in his life before.

He looks at the clock and realizes it is dinner time. That makes sense. They always meet to eat dinner together, at least those who are not still hospitalized.

He had thought Grif’s nap would cause him to be late, but he is honestly not surprised to hear that he is awake for this.

The day Grif misses dinner is the day to be worried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the big support for the first chapter! It really warms my heart.  
> I am keeping the chapters a bit smaller than what I usually write, mostly because I am still trying to figure out which pace I want this story to have. I hope you all still enjoy it!
> 
> As always; thank you for reading!


	3. A Footnote

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We have been informed that in previous articles the infamous terrorists have been described as “the Reds and Blues”; not “Blues and Reds” as it should have been the case (for more information be sure not to miss out on the reportage coming out this Sunday: “ _A Colorblind Society? – Why the order of words matter”_.). This mistake has been noted for future mentions, and we ensure those responsible for the confusion will no longer be publishing for _The Star Time_.

Grif’s eyes widen in excitement the moment he steps into the room, and Simmons’ heartbeat decides to go out of pace for a moment. It’s probably due to poor maintenance, maybe the pressure in Temple’s stupid underwater lair has fucked something up.

He should probably have it checked out – but Doctor Grey is always a bit too excited when she gets to _open up him up like a dead fish_ , as she puts it, and it always takes too long, and she is always so happy, and Simmons might have accidently shed a tear once. The weird tool had been very scary-looking, so no one can blame him for it. It had been buzzing and everything.

Only Donut and Grif are sitting at the table; plates already filled with the meal of today which looks like some sort of meatballs. Chorus is slowly getting agriculture back on track, leading to meals that actually aren’t too old MREs. Grif’s plate is filled to the edge, and the sight is somewhat comforting.

Simmons has been struggling with his appetite ever since the whole adventure. The first day they had been back on Chorus and dinner had turned out to be fish, Simmons had emptied stomach in the nearest toilet.

But right now he shovels two spoons of steamed beans onto his plate, alongside some vegetables that look like potatoes though the color is off.

Sarge is not present but Simmons knows their leader has been trying to find a mission for Red Team – something rather hard to accomplish now when the war is over. It doesn’t stop him from bothering Kimball, though.

On his way out of the hospital Simmons had met Caboose who was trying to balance a tray filled with dinner for his teammates. Until entire Blue Team is all out of the hospital Simmons does not expect to see them at dinner.

“Where’ve you been?” Grif asks him, knife and fork in his hands.

Simmons slips into the chair next to him. “Well, I went to see Tucker-“

“In the hospital? Donut said you went to the hospital and that’s why you weren’t here even though it was dinnertime and you said Red Team should gather for dinnertime and you’re never late but if you went to see Tucker you must have seen Wash and is he still okay and did Carolina yell ‘cause Caboose said she was yelling last time he visited and he didn’t think that was nice.”

Simmons blinks. Even Donut is frozen with his fork an inch away from his lips.

Grif is staring at Simmons, eyes even wider than before, and he is even leaning slightly out of his seat to get close to him. Somehow he is not breathless after that amount of words, all so rushed Simmons barely caught any of it.

Donut tears himself out of the scene and starts chewing. The noise causes Simmons to blink again, wondering just what has triggered one of Grif’s hyper moments. There had been a few of them as they travelled to Chorus but Simmons had blamed that on lack of sleep. They had all been driven by adrenalin for so long at that point. “Did… Grif, did you nap?”

The bruises can still be seen on Grif’s face, green and yellow smudges, purple in a few places. There are still dark circles under his eyes, as well as an unhealthy color to his skin. But Grif has never been an image of perfect health. Despite Simmons’ attempts to get him to make him eat actual vegetables and stop smoking and… Grif never really listens to him.

But right now Grif is leaning closer and closer to him, and Simmons cannot help but scoot back in his seat out of pure instinct.

“Well, yes and no but then the batteries ran out so I had to go find Caboose and he had some and there was blood on them and isn’t that weird but he wasn’t worried about it and then it was dinnertime but you weren’t here but that’s because you were at the hospital ‘cause that’s what Donut said and that you were coming back. Right?”

“Yeees?” Simmons is not quite sure what to answer since he is not sure what the question was. It would help if Grif would slow down a little. Or if he would just stop speaking with his mouth full. Simmons focuses on his plate again, digging his fork into a maybe-potato. “Maybe you should cut down on the snack cakes. I don’t think sugar is that good for you.”

From the corner of his eye he sees Grif fall back in his seat. “Oh. Yeah…”

There is an awkward silence while Simmons chews. Grif is quiet but that just means the hyper fit is over which has to be good, right?

“Cronut looks good on this picture,” Donut suddenly says which causes Simmons to look up from his plate.  While Donut’s voice is cheerful, his face is too worn to match it – even Donut has lost his usual flawless and joyful expression, and that is perhaps the biggest proof of how much the mission craved from everyone. “The light is really slimming!”

He is pointing at a tablet he has brought along – usually to view the newest fashion articles (lavender is apparently the new peach, at least according to Donut’s news during yesterday’s dinner) – but from his seat Simmons can see a picture with too familiar colorful soldiers-

His hand reaches out and snatches the tablet from him.

“Any news?” Grif asks while slowly cutting a meatball into eight bites.

“It’s, well, an article about Temple’s plan. Sorta. _Strange Ray of Light Confirmed Not To Have Been Caused by Aliens – but you’ll never guess the actual reason…_ ”

“Oooh!” Donut says loudly. “Click-bait!”

“I can hardly contain my excitement,” Grif mutters and starts chewing on one of his small bites of meat.

Simmons quickly scans the article. He knows Dylan needed a bit of time to get a hang of the last details and collect all her recordings into an actual reportage, so it surprises him to see another new station tackling the event. It’s not doing a good job, honestly. No big reveal with the, you know, rather important fact that the Reds and Blues are innocent. However it does make a big deal out of making it clear that the ray did not harm the area’s birds and, well, that’s one less thing to worry about.

And then Simmons spots the asterisk.

“What the fuck?!”

Grif looks at him with eyes much less excited than at the beginning of dinner, despite Simmons’ exclamation. “What?”

Simmons reads the footnote out loud, barely managing to keep his voice steady.

“We have been informed that in previous articles the infamous terrorists have been described as “the Reds and Blues”; not “Blues and Reds” as it should have been the case (for more information be sure not to miss out on the reportage coming out this Sunday:  “ _A Colorblind Society? – Why the order of words matter_ ”.). This mistake has been noted for future mentions, and we ensure those responsible for the confusion will no longer be publishing for _The Star Time_.”

Simmons drops the tablet with an upset gasp. “They cleared our names in a footnote?!”

Grif is busy mashing his vegetables with his fork. “So? You like footnotes.”

“ _Yes_ , but for less, you know, _significant_ mistakes, like, uhm, grammar mistakes.”

 “You like correcting grammar mistakes,” Grif points out again, voice just as flat as before.

“I’m just saying that if you don’t know the difference between _your_ and _you’re_ then maybe _you’re_ not suited for _your_ job at the news station.”

Donut smacks his lips. “Harsh.”

Grif points at the tablet. “Well, someone got fired. Happy?”

“I guess.” Simmons starts stabbing his perhaps-potato. “Man, I hope Dylan’s article will be better.”

And then he remembers Tucker asking if she will use their interviews, and Simmons’ stomach glitches again, something cold and unpleasant growing in his polymer gut. He really should see Doctor Grey.

“She seemed like a capable woman,” Donut says from his side of the table. “I wonder if she got those photos I sent? I figured she wanted more from my good side.”

Grif finally looks up from his plate again. “So do you think I could actually have gotten arrested? I mean, there was no orange guy blowing up stuff. They had no dirt on me.”

“Uhm…” Simmons has not considered that. Now he is just stuck with the image of Grif visiting him in jail. And Grif would totally have come visited him if that was the case. Right?

“And why didn’t they have an orange asshole?” Grif mutters out loud. Even though Simmons has no answer to that he inhales to tell Grif he does not know – but he has some theories. But Grif is too quick and answers his own question. “Well, I guess Sarge just shot him by instinct the moment he saw him. The color orange triggers him and all that.”

Simmons chokes on his not-potato. He sputters and coughs and there are tears in his eyes and by the time he can breathe again Donut has already gracefully changed subject.

“So I hear I missed some drama!”

Donut winks at Grif and it is first then he seems to realize the statement is directed towards him. He blinks groggily, like he had just awoken from a nap. “Huh?”

“You know. With Kai…”

Grif groans loudly, slamming his palms against the table. The noise almost causes Simmons to jump in surprise. “For fuck’s sake, can we _not_ bring up my headaches?!”

“Wait. What?” Simmons asks, and has to look over his shoulder to make sure Sister is not here. Normally she is the one that causes him to backtrack like that.

He runs a hand down his face before turning in his chair to face him. “Just Kai being fucking immature. She thinks that just ‘cause she runs festivals she doesn’t have to listen to her big brother. We had an argument.”

“And she was loud!” Donut adds cheerfully.

Simmons tilts his head. “So that’s why she left?”

“Nah. She’s out to see some locations that could work for a karaoke festival – _Choose Your Chorus_. Went on a roadtrip with some former privates her age. Said she needed someone showing her around, plus she needs to blow off some steam and… _Fuck_. I just connected some dots I did not want to connect.”

“I’m sure she can handle herself,” Simmons tries to comfort. Even though they are talking about Kaikaina. _The_ Kaikaina.

Grif is suddenly interested in his food again, twirling his fork around. “Yeah… She’s kinda proven that. I guess.”

“I just got a message from Sarge.” Donut holds up his communicator as proof. “He says he’s found a mission for us! Strategy meeting in the armory in ten minutes!”

Simmons shovels the last bit of food into his mouth, swallowing quickly. He is halfway out of his seat when he realizes Grif is still eating – and that he is far from being finished.

Grif’s plate had been absolutely filled when Simmons joined them. And now around three quarters of his portion is still to be eaten.

“ _We’ll be there soon_.” Donut says as his text out loud. “Do you think six hearts are too much for Sarge? On the other hand, he is a fan of everything red.”

“I think we might be a little late.” Simmons gestures towards Grif who is cutting his second meatball into tiny pieces.

Donut shares a glance with Simmons before smiling brightly. “Well, I’ll just let him know you’re on your way.”

And then Donut leaves. Which means Simmons is alone. With Grif.

Simmons sits down again ‘cause standing up while Grif is sitting is weird and they are not doing weird. Weird is uncomfortable. Nothing weird is happening right now.

“How the fuck did Sarge manage to find a mission?” Grif asks after just two seconds of silence. He puts another tiny piece of meatball in his mouth.

“I’m more curious which kind of mission it’ll be.” Simmons shudders. Then he looks at Grif; the way all the food on his plate is cut into tiny pieces, the way Grif plays too much with the bites, the long time it takes for him to actually put a piece in his mouth. And Simmons has a question, naturally. “So how did you know Sarge would call for a meeting?”

Grif stops chewing. “What?”

Simmons has seen this before. It’s a trick that Grif often uses to avoid duties he does not want to show up for. A meeting after dinner? Then drag dinner out until the meeting is over. It’s the few times Grif will not just shovel the food into his mouth. There was a time he had tried to avoid a meeting with Kimball but the General had just shown up, thrown his plate out and dragged a whining Grif by the ear to her office.

“Sarge will just march in here eventually,” Simmons warns him.

Grif shrugs. “Probably.”

He continues to eat, agonizingly slow, as if savoring it. But Simmons doubts he is that fond of the not-potatoes.

Grif slowly chooses a piece, slowly forces his fork into it, slowly chews. They are going to be late this way.

Simmons is so mesmerized by Grif’s working jaw that he does not realize Grif is speaking to him. When he finally becomes aware, the words are too muffled. “You shouldn’t speak with your mouth full,” Simmons reminds him automatically.

“Sorry.”

Grif never apologizes. Not for rude manners. Not like that. Not straight away without flipping Simmons off first.

Something is off. Simmons should ask. He really should. Grif is right there and Donut is gone and Simmons can easily ask Grif if he is okay without making it weird. He just needs to open his mouth and-

“Simmons?”

Grif’s head is tilted, eyes wide again.

Oh, Simmons probably let out a small noise by accident. He should say words now. Real words. He should ask. A little concern is not weird. He should just ask the fucking question-

“I, uhm, are you- I thought, maybe… Uhm… So what about a movie night? With the others? It’s been a while.”

Okay, so it might not be the intended question but it’s a question. And it’s a good plan. Grif likes movie nights.

“You get to pick the movie,” Simmons adds generously and feels better with himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I am forgetting Lopez but it’s on purpose. How dare you, I’d never forget my Spanish-speaking robot unlike some colorful space marines, so yeah, not forgotten. You’ll see. 
> 
> I feel like I should mention how this story is actually four one-shot ideas squeezed together into an actual plot. S15 just gave me so many ideas for scenes I wanted to write.
> 
> A lot will happen in the next chapter. Which means two things: either it’ll take me forever to write or I’ll be so excited about it that I need to write it right away. We’ll see. 
> 
> Thanks again for the wonderful support!


	4. Minefield

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He can’t trust Grif at the wheel right now.

“We’ve been gone for a year and you haven’t taken care of the mines yet?” Simmons asks dumbfounded.

Well, he is talking to Bitters, so the level of procrastination should not surprise him. But still, he has hoped Chorus would be less explosive now.

Grif’s Lieutenant shrugs. “It’s not like we haven’t been doing things. We all volunteered for the rebuilding jobs. But… You know, people usually choose the things that are less explosive and potential fatal first?”

“I built a house!” Palomo enters their conversation with a cheerful voice and a metal detector on his back.

The two remaining Lieutenants, or technically former-lieutenants, join him. “And we helped clearing the wreckage of Palomo’s house after the first storm,” Smith informs him helpfully as he walks past them towards the nearest vehicle.

“Then we had to work on the agriculture, oh and then there was the infrastructure and establishing a proper health care system-“ Jensen lisps cheerfully before she is cut off.

“’sides, this is _No Man_ ’ _s Land_. It’s not like anyone was bothered by it. Only reason you would come out there is if you lost a bet and if you’re stupid enough to think almost blowing up makes you look cool… But Matthews turned out okay. The ringing for his ears disappeared after a couple of days.”

Simmons has heard of the infamous area. Located right between the Federal and the Republic territories, it had been made too dangerous for anyone to dare cross.

And of course Sarge has managed to send Red Team out to deal with them. Simmons is not sure what he should have expected – of course simple farming or house building is beneath them.

Simmons sighs.

“So why are we securing a worthless area?” he asks as he follows the Lieutenant to the Warthogs.

“Because no one likes landmines?” Bitters replies flatly in a tone that Simmons does not appreciate. “And because going the long way around sucks. Especially if you have Palomo in your jeep.”

Grif is already in the driver’s seat, and the sight clears Simmons’ displeased thoughts for a moment and replaces them with something that might be confidence. It’s been a while since their last Warthog drive, and Simmons has almost missed that stupid song. Almost.

The moment he has slipped into the passenger seat, Grif lets the vehicle move forward, driving a bit faster than what Simmons’ stomach prefers. But a tiny bit of nausea always plagues Simmons when he lets Grif have fun.

They are quiet while the polka music plays, loudly and cheerfully, to the point where it gives Simmons a headache and he turns it off.

Now the jeep is just weirdly quiet.

 “So… Demining, huh?” Grif says to start a conversation.

Grif’s visor is fixated on the road; something that Simmons should probably feel grateful for. “Yep. Leave it to Sarge to find the most dangerous job Chorus still has left.”

“Probably better than being the nurses who have to keep Carolina in bed.”

Simmons recalls Carolina trying to escape her room one of the times he had visited the hospital. It was first when Doctor Grey had firmly planted herself in the middle of the hallway that the Freelancer had been stopped. “That’s true. They could probably apply for hazard aid.”

Grif snorts. While leaning back in his seat, he casually takes a hand off the wheel to remove his helmet. The wind catches his hair, blowing it backwards in dark waves, and Grif closes his eyes as the fresh hair hits his face. For a moment Simmons thinks of a dog sticking its head out the window of a car.

 “It’s been a while since you’ve been behind the wheel.”

“Well, Sarge wrecked the jeep. Not much to do on the moon after that.”

Simmons turns his head to look at the surroundings they pass. In the beginning they had driven past towns, actual buildings with people coming out of houses. Now they are closing in on the more deserted areas. Simmons sees trees and bushes and a few moss-covered ruins. Grif drives so fast the grey and green colors mix. “So… What did you do?”

“You know me. Nap and eat. It was awesome.”

Simmons shifts to stare at him. Even with the sun trying to blind him, he cannot ignore how Grif looks without the helmet. He had looked beat yesterday, but judging from the bags under his eyes he hasn’t slept the entire night. That’s worse than Simmons’ sleeping schedule – which is probably not something to be proud of. But he’s down to one nightmare a night now, so that’s something.

Grif looks like he has not slept in a week, despite his claims of taking naps. He has lied to Simmons numerous times before (most often about whether or not he had done a specific chore to get Simmons off his back. Simmons really should have learned not to trust him, but why not always give him the benefit of the doubt?) but he has never lied about _naps_. If anything is sacred to Grif, those would be it.

“Are you… feeling okay?”

Grif looks away from the road and Simmons feels his stomach jump. Grif should be looking at where they are going, not at Simmons, why is he staring so intensely at Simmons-

His stutter is back when he tries to explain,“I mean, are you sure you’re up for this mission? You can stay behind if you want to – we’ll be okay. I get it if- if you want to nap or-“

Grif looks like Simmons just punched him in the stomach. Which is weird since Grif has one of the best poker-faces Simmons has ever seen.

“What the fuck is- _No_. I’m fine, this is awesome, we are going on this fucking mission. I- I’m not fucking quitting, Simmons.”

He can see the way Grif’s fingers are tightening around the wheel. Simmons is not quite sure if he can actually hear the leather creak under the pressure or his imagination is just running wild due to the panic. It could be both, actually.

“I didn’t-“

“I know I’m lazy but I learned my lesson, okay? I won’t-“ His head snaps back to glare at the road again and Simmons wants to sigh in relief but he cannot. All noises seem to get stuck in his throat. Grif has no troubles speaking, opening his mouth to let out another storm of words. “Let’s clear some mines, make Sarge happy, get this thing over with. We’ve been on a minefield before, it’s not that hard, and Caboose survived just fine, and he’s an idiot, and even if I’m an even bigger idiot I can pull off the same, so you can totally bring me along and I can help, I’ll show you, you can’t just leave me behi- Why is Jensen driving into the minefield?”

They both turn their heads to see the Lieutenant losing control of her vehicle, sliding dangerously close to the edge of the open field despite the locked wheels.

“Oh my god.”

Simmons jumps out of their Warthog, leaving Grif to mutter to himself behind the wheel.

The jeep finally halts in a cloud of dust, a meter away from the edge of the barren field. The halting of the jeep has been so sudden that it has spun around, revealing a stunned Jensen in the driver’s seat.

Palomo is clinging to the machine gun behind her. “Close call. But a really good dramatic entrance!”

_No Man’s Land_ is basically a dried out plot of land, danger lying just beneath the dusty, brown earth. Simmons can see to the other side of it, to what used to be Federal territory. The entire area is marked with danger signs, now when no one wants people to blow up.

Simmons really wishes they could have spent the day painting a house or something.

“The previous efforts have managed to clear this far,” Smith says as he climbs out of his jeep. “But we still have the rest of the area to clear.”

“Which techniques have you tried so far?”

Sarge joins them, Donut following close behind. Simmons is extremely grateful (and a bit surprised) that Donut did not demand shotgun’s lap today but let Simmons and Grif drive alone.

“I suppose you haven’t tried the good old ‘ _send the Blues running and see who goes the highest in the air_ ’. Winner gets the honor of the most spectacular death.”

Palomo looks at Simmons, actually answering his question. “Oh we tried sending a rat out there.”

“How did that go?” Simmons asks though he actually doesn’t want to know.

“Well, did you know you’re supposed to train them?” Everyone within a meter’s radius of Palomo face-palms. “It was a clever one, though. It managed to find one mine by itself.”

The Lieutenants walk off as their own group, ready to begin in their end of the area.

Meanwhile, Red Team does what Red Team does best – discussing battle plans.

“It seems like we need a delicate touch to sort this out,” Donut suggests and rubs his hands together.

Simmons smacks his lips together. “Actually, I think we just need a metal detector.”

“Never trust modern technology.” Sarge huffs and turns his head to glare at Grif who is still in the Warthog. “Grif, get your heavy hide over here and make yourself useful.”

Grif slowly makes his way over to them, and then the routine starts: Simmons knows his role, and it’s time to present the logic. He wishes he could bring his charts – they shouldn’t be needed, but it helps the others keep focus. Sometimes.

“So the Lieutenants are working from the northern side. We should start here, slowly making our way towards them. May I suggest we all grab a detector and distribute a smaller area, preferably a square, to everyone and then we can improve our efficiency with-“

And cue for Sarge to cut him off. “Absolut efficiency can only be achieved by finding the bomb-“

“Actually, we need to disarm them as well-“

Aaand time for Sarge’s crazy plan to be introduced. “-so of course the only solution is _Demine Operation M-I-N-E-E._ The extra _e_ is for the extra explosive. Grif, I need you to march out there and don’t look back!”

And so Grif is going to protest. “I-“

And now Sarge ignores him. “Once you’ve found a mine, let us know – preferably with an explosiony sound.”

Which means Grif is going to sigh – which he does. “Sure.”

And so it is time for Simmons to begin to speak again. “I would propose another strategy. One that actually involves the metal detectors. That we were given. For this specific mission.”

It’s been a while without an innuendo…

“We have the right tools for the job! We’ll be in and out of there in no time.”

…and there it is. Simmons sighs and makes his final attempt to talk his way out of Sarge’s madness.

“Does this mean we agree on the metal detectors? Because I think it would be a shame not to-“

Then something breaks the usual Red Team banter schedule. Simmons hates it when things don’t go as expected but this is bad on a whole other level.

Donut makes a soft noise of surprise, and Simmons turns his head to follow stare.

Grif is marching straight forward, already meters into the minefield and he is not slowing down.

“ _GRIF_!”

Simmons knows he would do a lot for Grif. He has known that since the day Grif was bleeding out in front of him and he told Sarge that being a cyborg sounded kinda cool. Today he learns that he is ready to jump into a minefield for him.

He can’t really remember how he got to him. It is too long to have been one big leap – Simmons knows  his legs aren’t that flexible after a miserable test in PE. No, it must have been small, quick steps, and by some miracle he isn’t blown to pieces when he finally slams his body against Grif’s and tackles him to the ground.

Which, perhaps, isn’t the smartest idea, and Simmons tugs Grif close into a maroon and orange ball just before the dust and flying small rocks hit them. For a moment Simmons just waits for death, and honestly this is not the way he expected to go.

Then Donut yells that he is okay, and Simmons lifts his head to see that the explosion happened at a safe distance from them. Donut must have triggered something when he tried to follow Simmons, but of course the pink soldier is alright.

Simmons uncurls from Grif who has frozen under the touch. While still keeping a tight grip on his arm, making sure they fill as little as possible on their safe spot, Simmons inhales sharply before staring down at Grif’s visor. “What the fuck are you doing?!”

 Grif waits for just a second, not pulling away from his grasp, before answering, “Operation M-I-N-E-“

Several alarm bells are going off in Simmons’ mind, and he is pretty sure that’s why his vision turns red every third second. The air seems to get stuck in his throat but he manages to gasp, “Are you serious?”

“-and then the extra E,” Grif continues with the same dull voice. He suddenly looks up at Simmons, as if first noticing his presence now. “What the fuck are you doing out here?”

“Trying to stop you from blowing yourself up?” Simmons hisses. He can see the others in the distance, the Lieutenants showing up as well. He is still clinging onto Grif, too scared to let go, and he is pretty sure he is shaking.

At least Grif has not tried to shake him off yet. Or is that a bad sign?

“I wasn’t-“ And for a brief moment Grif’s body goes lax. “Oh,” he finally says, as if suddenly realizing the situation, and Simmons has this dreadful feeling that it might be the case.

“Are you out of your mind?!”

Grif’s voice has an edge to it again, and it’s almost normal, but it isn’t comforting, not anymore. “You’re the one always screaming about following orders.”

“Not _these_! And you’re the one always-“ Simmons can’t find the words. His mind is just one screaming mess, panic echoing inside his skull. He manages to unclasp Grif’s helmet and place it in his lap. “You’re sick. You’re sick, right?”

He stares at his face, looking for any traces of sickness. The bruises are still there, as well as the shadows under his glassy eyes.

When Simmons reaches out to put a hand on his forehead, Grif flinches and something inside Simmons’ mechanical torso breaks.

Simmons inhales sharply before pulling back. “You look like shit. I said you could stay behind, why didn’t you-“ There is a beeping in his ear and it takes too long for him to realize it is not just a part of his brain overheating, but in fact Donut calling him. Simmons’ hand flies to the side of the helmet to answer him. “Yeah, we’re okay. Just clear us a path so we can go back. I don’t know, he’s… I don’t know.”

When he hangs up, Grif is staring up at him. Their almost embrace is extremely uncomfortable; Simmons’ hands won’t stop shaking, and Grif’s body is stiff like a statue in his grasp. “Why are you so angry ‘bout-“

“Oh. Maybe because you just tried to get yourself killed?!” Simmons is not sure if he wants to yell or cry or what is worst – he just ends up shouting because of the situation that his mind is yet to fully accept. “You walked straight into a minefield, Grif! Knowingly!”

A soft sound escapes Grif’s lips as his mouth falls open but it never turns into a real word. His pupils change size, adjusting, and suddenly focus on Simmons. The glassy look in his eyes has faded away.

 “Why?” Simmons asks and his voice might crack a little – but they are surrounded by potentially fatal mines, and it’ll take the others forever to clear them a safe path out of there, and Grif is the reason they are out here and Simmons doesn’t know _why_ and he just wants to _understand_ -

“…Taking one for the team?” Grif suggests carefully, and it sounds more like a question he does not even believe in himself.

Simmons sighs again and it hurts his throat. “And now we’re both stuck out here.”

“Sorry.”

The inner core of Simmons’ chest must be infected. It’s like someone pressing down on a sore bruise, and the painful pressure is making him nauseous. “Stop.”

Grif shifts in his grasp but does not try to pull away. Which is good since Simmons will not allow him to fall onto a mine by accident. “What?”

“ _That_.” The hiss leaves Simmons’ numb lips. “You’re not- you don’t say that. I am trying very hard not to freak out right now so stop acting weird.”

“I think you already are-“

“Grif!”

He wants him to stop talking. He wants him to be Grif, normal Grif, not this Grif who is all wrong, who follows Sarge’s stupid plans and apologizes to Simmons like it’s nothing. He wants snarky, sarcastic asshole Grif back, the one who teases Simmons and does not have that resigned look on his face. Simmons wonders if that is how he looked like so many years ago, when his father was thundering above him and he just awaited his judgement.

His brain is screaming under the pressure of the headache, and he wants Grif to stay silent – until he can get him to Grey and she can fix him and he’ll sound like Grif again.

His tone seems to work and they sit in silence.

Simmons watches the others work in the distance, slowly making their way to them with the metal detectors.

At some point Grif starts rocking back and forth, just slightly, constantly muttering something to himself too low for Simmons to hear.

Simmons closes his eyes and tightens his grip on Grif’s arm, fearing he will bolt if given the chance.

 “I’m taking you to Doctor Grey,” Simmons tells him and nods. Grey will know what to do. She is already making Wash sound normal again – well, as normal you can sound when being high on painkillers. Grif just needs rest. Until he sounds and looks like _Grif_ again. This can be fixed. He’ll be fixed.

 Grif looks like he might say something, and Simmons can’t bring himself to hear it. “ _Don’t,_ ” he says because as scary as Grey might be Simmons is willing to drag Grif there if necessary. Which will probably be the case. “She’ll fix yo- _this_. It’ll be alright.”

Grif keeps muttering to himself, so quiet they might be whispers, and Simmons can feel his breathing speed up as the panic and the _wrong_ -ness hit him, and he is quite surprised he has not short-circuited yet. A part of him wishes he it would happen.

The others finally get to them, having marked a safe small path to lead them out of the field. Simmons drags Grif up from the ground with him, mumbles a thanks to their rescuers, and they all manage to get out of there in one piece. It’s almost too good to believe, but Simmons really does not want to think further about this situation or he might throw up.

“Grif’s sick,” he manages to tell Donut when he gets to close. Sarge stops the pink soldier from getting into the Warthog with them. The Lieutenants are strangely quiet, and Bitters is standing next to the vehicles, just watching as Simmons props Grif into the passenger seat.

He can’t trust Grif at the wheel right now.

It’s quiet in the Warthog. Grif inhales, as if to say something, but no sound comes from him. He wrings his hands until he reaches forward to turn on the music.

Simmons feels sick, head pounding in a slow, agonizing pace, and he turns it off after a minute, unable to deal with it at the moment.

A few seconds later Grif is talking to himself, hushed words Simmons is not meant to hear, and Simmons keeps his burning eyes on the road like a good driver but he can’t stop his vision from getting blurry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically Grif’s stunt is caused by a mix of sleep-deprivation, still suffering from a distance to reality after the moon, and then he got triggered when Simmons mentioned leaving him behind. Gah, Simmons tried. And Grif is not aware of exactly what he did, but more of that will be discussed.
> 
> This plot turned out much longer than expected so I hope you all enjoy.
> 
> Thank you for the support and thank you for reading!


	5. Moonstruck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So he’s been acting a bit… weird. But it’s first now that he’s been acting like a complete lunatic-“
> 
> He almost chokes on the word, slamming a hand against his face.
> 
> “What?”
> 
> “Lunatic. _Lunaticus_. Latin. It means _moonstruck_.”

Someone must have called Grey beforehand and informed her of the _incident_ because she is standing ready in the doorway the moment Simmons has dragged Grif into the medical wing. Simmons is trying to explain the situation but he’s pretty sure he’s babbling, maybe, because Grif is sending him a weird look and he can feel Grey raise an eyebrow behind her terrifyingly blank visor.

“Well, that sounds worrisome!” Grey chirps. Maybe Simmons has managed to piece together the words _Grif_ and _minefield_ in a correct, sorta logical order or maybe she just thinks that Simmons has had a stroke.  “Let’s fix that.”

And then she pulls Grif into the nearest examination room.

Simmons is left alone in the hallway, stuck with the same horrible feeling he’d had whenever his parents had dropped off Jessie the family dog to fix her limp of flea problem. Of course Grif is going to come back home: not like Jessie whom the doctor moved to Uncle Jim’s farm.

Which Simmons of course had figured out was bullshit when he was 11. Uncle Jim didn’t have a farm. Oh, and Simmons has never had an uncle named Jim.

“Simmons?”

He turns around to follow the sound of the voice and discovers he has walked past the open door to Carolina’s room. He looks inside to see her sitting up in bed. She is less pale now, which is good, and it looks like some of her IVs have been removed.

Now when he doesn’t have a wheel or Grif to hold on to, Simmons’ hands are shaking. He looks down at them and opens his mouth.

Apparently he doesn’t manage to say anything since Carolina inquires further, “Is everything okay?”

“Grif stepped into a minefield.”

Carolina’s eyes widen to a size Simmons has never seen before.

He nods gravely and finds it comforting that he is not the only one panicking about this. Clearly, he isn’t overreacting by taking him to Grey.

Then he realizes just what he has said.

“No, wait, he didn’t blow up or anything.”

“Thank god.” Carolina exhales. “Poor phrasing.” The heart alarm next to her starts to slow down into a steady pace again.

“Sorry. Well, he did step into a minefield. That’s the problem. That he walked right in. Knowing about it.”

A new sort of worry seeps into her facial expression. Simmons can see it: the frown, the way her mouth turns into a thin line. “Simmons?”

He takes in a shaky breath and tries his best not to cry. He can’t cry in front of Carolina. Not when Simmons and the rest of their team have earned her respect by being the super cool Captains that took down Hargrove’s troops by themselves. Super cool Captains don’t cry.

He falls into the chair next to her bed. He removes his helmet, despite his fear of tears, and runs a hand through his hair. It’s slick with sweat. He should take a shower later when all of this has been sorted out.

“He, uh, I don’t know. He said he wasn’t doing it to get himself killed but then he said he was just following out Sarge’s plan and that’s basically the same thing, right? I mean, I follow Sarge’s orders but not like every step because they’re, well, Sarge’s orders. We’ve never used Operation Meatshield before, not in practice. And Sarge never intended to use _Operation M-I-N-E-E_ , not really, we always go with plan B. Grif knows this, why did he-“

He stops when a hand closes around his wrist. The grip is so gentle that for a moment Simmons forgets all memories of how scared he has once been of the Freelancer.

“Simmons,” Carolina says gently, voice steady enough to pull Simmons out of his panicked thoughts. “Slow down. Breathe.”

He follows orders, of course, even though his throat hurts.

“Again. From the beginning.”

Simmons tells her about _Dead Man’s Land_. About _Operation M-I-N-E-E_. About the usual Red Team discussions and Grif breaking the pattern by marching away with large steps and straight back. About the glassy look in Grif’s eyes when Simmons removed his helmet. About his distant answers as if _he had just not understood what had just happened_. And what could have happened, if things had not gone their way.

“And so I thought we should take him to Grey and everyone kinda agreed, I think, even Grif didn’t argue against it and that’s just _weird,_ and he has to be sick, right?” Simmons finally finishes.

After the whole explanation, his mouth feels dry and his eyes flicker towards the jug of water and Carolina gives him a small nod. The water helps a little but Simmons still feels like crap. He wants another retirement, one that actually works and where things are happy and normal and not crazy and dangerous.

But Simmons has learned that dreaming is stupid a long time ago.

“Has he been sleeping?”

Simmons looks down into his glass. “He says he has. But it doesn’t look like it. “

He can feel his ears turn red from shame. He doesn’t dare to look at Carolina. Not now, not when he has just admitted that he _knew_ something was wrong and had waited to do something until it was too late. The secret is out: Simmons is a horrible friend. He had been an outcast his entire high school life, and this is probably the reason why.

Carolina’s blanket is shoved to the bottom of the bed. She’s not wearing a hospital dress any more. She is sitting with her legs crossed, listening closely. There is color in her cheeks.

He takes comfort in all that. She doesn’t look fragile anymore. Simmons is not good with handling fragile things. Not since the high school nurse had written a journal about him after a panic attack and described him as a fragile student. Fragile self-worth and fragile confidence. Give him something fragile and he’ll break it and then have an emotional break-down it.

Just perfect for the army. Well, as a secret simulation program, at least, as it had turned out.

“People tend to do less rational things when sleep-deprived,” Carolina tells him knowingly.

Simmons blinks tiredly before lifting his head again. “Oh, you’re referring to Wash.”

“Well, yes.” She quietly coughs, and he remembers Wash is not the only Freelancer that had been frozen for days.

“…Is it true you thought Locus was a hallucination?”

“Is it true you pulled a knife on Gene?” she asks him back with a raised eyebrow and a slight smile.

He shrugs. “I mean, it was just in my boot anyway and I lost my rifle so I figured I might as well-“

“You should let Wash train you,” she tells him, “once he gets discharged.”

“You think he’d want to do that?”

“Yes. I think he would.”

Simmons shifts in his seat. “…Do you think Grey will keep Grif here?” He tries his best not to imagine Grif in a hospital bed. It just reminds him of the time after the Hargrove battle where they had both been stuck in the medical wing because Grif was too big of a target not to get hit and Simmons’ cyborg arm had ended up partly melted after a smaller explosion.

“I don’t know.”

“What do you think is wrong with him?”

“I don’t know,” Carolina says again. At least she doesn’t sound angry about his never-ending, stupid questions. “Simmons, did you and Grif ever discuss his decision to stay behind?”

“A bit. I mean, he apologized and we talked things through and we’re fine. No hard feelings and all that. We… kinda agreed not to talk about it? I don’t know. He doesn’t like to bring it up.” Simmons clutches the glass a bit harder. “So he’s been acting a bit… weird. But it’s first now that he’s been acting like a complete lunatic-“

He almost chokes on the word, slamming a hand against his face.

“What?”

“Lunatic. _Lunaticus_. Latin. It means _moonstruck_.” He groans and leans his head back so it smacks against the wall. The brief pain is strangely satisfying. “It’s just… It’s kinda ironic, isn’t it? Stupid moon.”

Carolina waits for a moment before asking, “Did Grif ever tell you _why_ he quit?”

Simmons shrugs. “He just said he hated the team.” A warm feeling blossoms in his chest when he remembers how Grif never mentioned Simmons’ name in the lair. It was not the same as _all of you_. Simmons had not been included. He hadn’t said Simmons’ name. That’s important.

“I’m not sure that is true,” Carolina finally tells him, and somewhere deep inside of Simmons he feels a pang of anger. Carolina doesn’t know Grif, she’s not his best friend. Simmons is the one who knows Grif the best (…even though he failed to see this situation coming…), but then again, Grif and Carolina had spent a lot of time together on the moon during Grif’s relaxation course.

“I don’t know,” Simmons just sighs. He wishes Grif had never quit. Or maybe that he had never left with the others. He isn’t sure. Blinking, he suddenly realizes he is in Carolina’s hospital room – as in, _Carolina is a patient_. Simmons’ face grows hot again as he understands how impolite he has been. “So, uhm, how are you feeling?”

Carolina laughs briefly. “I’m _fine_.” It sounds like she has been saying that a lot. Which is probably the case, since she has been here for almost a week. “I don’t suppose you could convince Doctor Grey that her _hospitality_ has grown unneeded.”

While the Freelancer seems much better, there is no way that Simmons will find the courage to discuss the subject with the doctor face to face. “…I could leave a post-it note? Somewhere…” It probably won’t a problem if she first found the note a few days from now, right?

Carolina’s eyes flicker away from him, and Simmons realizes Grey is standing in the doorway. He immediately jumps from his chair. “Is Grif-?”

“Resting,” Grey tells him sweetly. “Well, he _was_. We ran some tests and nothing too troubling – but we definitely need to handle his sleep deprivation, and his blood sugar was a bit off, due to lack of proper nutrition. Which _is_ rather alarming in this patient’s case, knowing Captain Grif’s former eating habits. Not to mention the trace of a highly addictive substance in his blood, presumably from the strange fungus you have described for me. How funny: usually when people see something blue and glowing, they won’t try to eat it. And most people won’t encourage consuming a higher amount of the unfamiliar and untested fungus in order to purposefully experience its effects.”

Carolina and Simmons briefly share a glance.

“Ooh, and some therapy is definitely in order. But we’ll get to that. I would have had the first session right away, but then my presence was required elsewhere, and he wasn’t to be found when I returned.”

“You left him alone?”

“Excuse me, I didn’t hear you volunteering to remove a highly infected appendix from Private Lamper,” Grey sings in a sugar-sweet voice that immediately makes Simmons drop the blame-throwing.

Carolina frowns. “Grif is escaping the hospital?”

It takes some seconds before Simmons realizes she sounds sour because she is jealous.

Grey nods calmly. “It would seem so.”

“I thought you _loved runners_ ,” the Freelancer quotes her, obviously having been told the threat before.

“Oh, Captain Grif isn’t a runner.”

“He hides,” Simmons concludes for her, and he isn’t sure whether to feel relieved or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I began this story I thought it would be 7 chapters long. Spoiler alert: it'll be much longer.
> 
> Thank you for all your support!


	6. Golden Opportunities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmons is going to find the Gold Team Codex and _fucking burn it_.

Simmons is an expert in tracking down Grif. It’s literally in his job description.

_Rouse and escort the orange one to assigned duty. NB: manhandling is ~~allowed~~ encouraged._

Right next to: _Laundry duty. NB: Red sweaters only washed by hand._

For years Simmons has been in charge of finding Grif, revealing his hiding spots and dragging him by the ear back to his duties. Most often it’s rather easy to locate him. Either it’s following the track of empty snack packages or listening to the distinct sound of snoring.

During the years Simmons has grown softer, sometimes not telling Sarge just where he found Grif. He’s allowed to have a few private places for napping, as long as Simmons knows where to go when his presence is required.

When they’d landed on Chorus and had been given their titles Simmons had kept quiet about the hiding spots as well. Of course he could not let Grif sleep the entire day, not when Kimball held her important meeting, but Simmons understood why Grif had been tired. Sometimes he had wanted to creep into a broom closet as well, just hiding from all the new responsibilities that had been thrown at them.

But Simmons is not the kind of guy who stays in closets – wait, is there some sort of irony here? – so he never joins Grif in his napping spots.

But this is definitely an emergency situation, and while Grif needs rest it should be supervised in the hospital, so Simmons jogs towards the favorite spot – the eastern food storage. It is the number one spot due to its obvious advantages since not all the napping spots have such a snack stash built in.

Simmons wears his helmet because he knows his expression is marked with worry right now. Which is understandable, of course. It’s been a long day. And Grey can’t fix Grif if he isn’t in her hospital. Simmons should have known it had been too easy when Grif had not complained about him taking him there. He should have seen this coming.

But today has showed a lot of surprises.

He stops in front of the storage, unsure if he should knock or something. Should he? He is not quite sure how to approach. On one hand, Grif should be in trouble for fleeing from the hospital like this. It’s wrong and immature and irresponsible and Simmons should scold him. Probably.

On the other hand… Simmons doesn’t feel like yelling at Grif right now.

“Grif?” he asks with a hand on the door. No one answers. Simmons inhales and steps inside.

He stares at empty shelves and suddenly realizes there is no longer a mess hall here. Chorus is rebuilding: people have their own houses now, and restaurants and cafes have started to appear. Grif had kept talking about starting a restaurant of sort, serving everything from burritos to snack cakes, but they had moved to the moon before Simmons had even begun to discuss finances.

“Any progress?” Grey asks inside his helmet.

Simmons backs out of the empty room. “Working on it.”

So he’s wrong about this spot. That’s okay – he also knows Grif’s second most favorite spot. It’s outside, on top of their old barracks, where he would sit on the roof and smoke while being obscured from anyone’s field of sight.

Simmons breathes in deeply. There’s no reason to worry. He knows Grif. He can follow his footsteps until he finds him. They know each other that well.

He stumbles a bit up the stairs and forgets everything about knocking this time. Suddenly he is breathing in fresh air, and he is outside, and the sun is setting in the distance, and Grif isn’t there.

Simmons is staring at an empty roof and feels very out of place. He doesn’t remember having suffering from a fear of heights before, but right now his stomach feels sick.

“Any progress?” Grey asks again. She doesn’t sound particularly worried. Maybe it’s a good sign but Simmons isn’t sure.

“ _Working on it_ ,” he replies again, voice breaking this time.

As on cue, it begins to rain heavily, clouds opening with a loud _bang_. Simmons hangs his head in defeat as raindrops travel down his visor. Today sucks.

He knows Grif. _He knows he knows Grif._

He knows that Grif is hiding right now. And he knows those two hiding spots.

Right now he doesn’t know where Grif is.

Simmons is standing in the rain and Grif is gone. Simmons is supposed to be working on it.

He doesn’t have much dignity right now, alone on a roof with slumping shoulders, but he gives up the little remains of his pride by calling Bitters.

“’sup?”

“Bitters.”

“Why the fuck are _you_ calling me?”

“I need your help.”

“Wrong number. We’re cops now. Try 9-1-1.”

“It’s not… it’s not _that_ bad. I think.” Simmons inhales and wipes some rain of his visor. He’d prefer not to call this situation an emergency. He has it handled. He just needs some inside information. “Grif’s escaped from the hospital.”

“So?”

“I need your help to track him down.”

“Gold Team Codex, article 26: you don’t hand over teammates to Doctor Grey. Unless they’re bleeding out or dying or something. Otherwise, Gold Team stays away from crazy.”

“Grey isn’t-“ Simmons stops and considers his words. He’s glad his armor is waterproof. “Look, Grif needs to be at the hospital right now. We don’t have to include Grey. You’re just helping me find Grif. Then I include Grey. Okay?”

There is silence on the other side of the line. “So what do you want?”

“All of Grif’s hiding spots.”

“Article 17: napping spots are the most protected secret intel.”

The list of people Simmons wants to strangle is growing steadily day by day. “Oh, since when are you a goodie-two-shoes?” he hisses into his helmet.

“Since when do you call me for help?” comes the reply, not missing a beat.

“Bitters, I’ll pay you.”

“10 bucks.”

“ _5_.”

“Deal.”

They meet at the old training area where Wash would have them run laps. It’s still in use but not as frequently as before. A feeling of déjà vu hits Simmons as he enters the hall.

“Yo,” Bitters says and slips out from the shadows like a spy in a shitty thriller. Grif has definitely taught his team the sense of drama, and Simmons suddenly recalls the illegal bullet trade back in Rat’s Nest and he shudders.

Simmons just nods and quietly hands him the money.

Bitters takes him to a secret room behind one of the metal lockers. Simmons briefly wonders if Gold Team found or created this place, and he isn’t sure what would impress him the most.

His excitement doesn’t last long, however, since they are alone in the hiding spot.

“Damnit,” Simmons mutters under his breath. “Where the hell is he…?”

“I don’t know.” Bitters shrugs. “Probably in another spot.”

“Well, take me there.”

“You got another 5 bucks?”

Simmons starts to sputter, “I’ve already paid you!”

“For _one_ spot. What, you thought that was the total price?”

“How many spots do you have?” How does Simmons not know this? Does anybody else know? Does Gold Team have a secret map of Chorus or something?

“31 for normal use, 6 for emergencies.”

Simmons drops his jaw. It takes four seconds for him to pick it up again. “I… Are you serious?!” Simmons knows two of the spots – well, three now. If Grif wants to, he could disappear.

“5 bucks for each spot.” When Simmons is about to protest, Bitters continues with a shrug, “Article 21: If you gotta snitch, bleed the buyer dry.”

Simmons is going to find the Gold Team Codex and _fucking burn it_. 

* * *

They go to a long abandoned cellar. Nothing. Behind the usually always locked door in the old northern barracks ( _how_ did Bitters get that key?). Nothing. The vents. Nothing. A storage closet that stirs up weird emotion inside Simmons. Nothing.

Everywhere they go Simmons sees how Chorus has grown. It’s no longer barracks, mess halls, training courts. It’s apartments, restaurants, shops… Something that looks like the average city you would see in a normal life.

It’s probably a sad sign that Simmons finds it unsettling. He can’t remember the last time he has been in actual city, not thinking about wars or AIs or enemies or crazy counterparts.

When another spot proves to be a failure, Bitters suddenly snorts, “Did you consider that _maybe_ he doesn’t want to be found?”

“Well, he _needs_ to be found.”

“You should just leave him alone,” Bitters says. He is walking in front of Simmons, not waiting for him to keep up the pace. “That’s what he wants.”

“Grif doesn’t know what he wants,” Simmons says quickly. “He’s sick. That’s why were hu- _searching_ for him.”

Bitters turns his head. His helmet is doing a great job of shielding his expression but Simmons is pretty sure he’s currently glaring daggers at Simmons. “Or maybe he just wants you to fuck off. _Again_.”

Can Simmons report the Lieutenant for assaulting him? Because he’s pretty sure he’s just received an invisible fist to the stomach. “I…”

His legs stop walking.

Further down the hall Bitters turns around to face him. His arms are crossed. “So we were told the story. Kai, too. That’s why they were fighting. Did you know that?”

“Kai-“

“’cause she was going to kick your ass and Grif didn’t want her to.” He shrugs again. “Doesn’t matter. Once she finds out about this you’re pretty much dead.”

Simmons tries to swallow but his mouth is suddenly too dry.

“I didn’t-“

_-do that. –mean to_. Simmons is still trying to end his sentence when Grey calls him again. “ _Working on it_!” he shrieks before she can even ask her question.

He shuts off his comms. For two seconds he just closes his eyes. Grif is fine, just napping somewhere, and Simmons is going to find him. There’s no reason Grif would have left the city or something… He has to be here. The next spot, probably.

It suddenly occurs to him that Bitters might have been leading him on a wild goose chase, purposefully guiding him to empty spots. Simmons isn’t sure if such an action is somewhat touching or annoying. Wait- Bitters is a little piece of shit and Simmons does not have the time for these games. It’s definitely annoying.

“Are you even sure he’s hiding?” Bitters snorts in disdain.

“Of course! He wasn’t in his-“ Simmons trails off. _Oh_. There is one place Simmons has not checked. Only because it’s so freaking obvious that now Simmons feels his self-esteem drop several floors until it’s on the same level as the mold-covered cellar they had checked earlier. “…his room.”

Simmons runs, forgetting about stupid Bitters and his stupid scam and his stupid accusations. The rain is yet to slow down, and he trips twice in inconvenient puddles on his way back to their sleeping quarters.

When he is finally in front of Grif’s door, his armor is wet and covered with mud, and he is panting so hard his lungs hurt and he almost smashes his head against the wall in sheer relief when he hears voices from inside the room.

A second later he raises his eyebrow – who is Grif talking with…? That’s not Grif’s voice.

Simmons realizes Grif just has his TV turned on again before taking in a deep breath and stepping inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t mess with Gold Team. They are a bunch of assholes who secretly cares a lot (and then there’s Matthews who’s less of an asshole and obviously cares).


	7. Hoarse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You took me to a doctor. Great. Doctor told me to get some rest. _Greater_. I’m holding onto that prescription, by the way. Gonna be useful in the future. So what’s the difference between a hospital bed and my bed? The correct answer, by the way, is that my bed is awesome and softer and I don’t have to wear stupid dresses that show my bare ass.”

The room is clean. That’s the first thing Simmons notices. Gone are the empty snack packages and candy wrappers. The movie discs have been stacked neatly in the corner.

Grif is in his bed with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. His eyes are glued to the screen, unblinking, but there is a glassy look in them that reveals he isn’t truly paying attention.

“Hi,” Simmons says and closes the door behind him.

Grif’s shoulders move slightly but that’s the only reaction he gains from him.

Simmons considers calling Grey but ends up taking off his helmet. He should just grab him by the arm and drag him back to the hospital but something tells him that might not be the most efficient idea right now. Not that Simmons expects Grif to bolt and run, but he knows he can’t really drag Grif’s weight anywhere – he has tried multiple times in the past.

He looks towards the screen and sees Grif bleeding out in a jeep with Church as the driver. “ _Reservoir Dogs_?” Simmons asks. “Really?”

Grif reaches for the remote and turns the volume up.

Simmons flinches and considers telling him to shut it off. He doesn’t. Instead he drags over the chair that is usually known as _the chair_. The one everyone has (except Simmons, of course, who knows how to appreciate drawers) where the dirty clothes get abandoned on. But today Grif’s t-shits have been neatly stacked, making it easy for Simmons to place them gently on the floor before putting the chair next to the bed.

The movie plays behind them. _“Ugh. I am shot.”_

Simmons sits down heavily. He can’t decide whether to cross his legs or not. Crossed legs is bad body language, right? Defensive attitude and all that. He remembers practicing for a job interview he ended up failing at – joining the military had been the next step. Not that this situation is anything like a job interview. In fact, it’s much worse.

“ _You're hurt-_ ”

“Grif,” Simmons says. “I, uhm…”

“- _You're hurt real fuckin' bad, but you ain't dyin'. 'Kay? Trust me ,I know what that feels like._ ”

Grif’s eyes are still plastered to the screen and Simmons does his best to ignore the constant source of noise in the background. “Grey really wanted to talk to you when she got… _distracted_. And-“

_“Ow. Ahhh! That heist. It went so bad. And now, I have been shot. I am going to die. I know it.”_

He folds his hands. “I- I think it would be good if you, you know, _talked_. With her. Or with me. We- we can do that too. If-“

“ _That heist went bad! But you're not gonna die! I'm… Uh..._ Line _!?_ ”

“-you’re up for it. I mean, you’re obviously not okay, I think, that’s- that’s what it looks like. And I don’t know wh… But… I-“

“ _I'm going to get you help,_ ” his own voice says from the screen. He only remembers little of the days they had been spent filming the remake. It had been fun, though, and that’s what he remembers the most. The moon had been much like Blood Gulch: filled with illogical craziness but also fun.

He turns his head towards the screen and lets out a very brief and dry chuckle. “Yeah. What I just said.”

For a moment Grif’s eyes flicker towards him. It doesn’t last long though.

_“Right- I'm gonna get you help!”_

Simmons tries to convince himself that sitting here, watching videos of a dead friend, is not weird. At all. It’s just… A coping mechanism? A weird one?

Grif is dying on the screen, letting out a fitting death noise.

 _“No! Don't you ‘_ herk bleagh’ _me! You hold on!”_

“Is this about Church?”

Grif frowns which is the first true reaction Simmons has gained so far. He supposes it’s a sign of progress. “Why the fuck should this be about Church?”

“Because you’re the one watching videos of him?”

He sighs loudly before rolling his eyes. He casually grabs the remote and pushes a button. The screen switches to show Dylan in Blood Gulch, explaining the backstory of the Reds and Blues. “You’re the ones who went out on a big fucking goose chase for him.”

There’s a lingering fear inside Simmons that the screen might suddenly show his interview again, and Simmons really, really doesn’t want to hear the words _friends have things in common_ again. “Can we turn that off?”

“Why?”

“Because we need to talk.”

“’bout what?”

Simmons closes his eyes for a moment. “Okay, you don’t want to talk. That’s…” He inhales. “That’s fine. Let’s just go back to Grey.”

From the look in Grif’s eyes Simmons might as well have suggested to go do twenty squats in the middle of the room. “Nah.”

“You can’t _nah_ this, Grif!”

“Sure I can.”

He can hear Jax doing a monologue, something about a gulch far, far way, and the background noise only worsens his irritation. “Can you please take this seriously?”

Grif uses his palm to sit up straight in his bed, and for some reason that little movement suddenly seems horrifying to Simmons. He suddenly thinks that serious might just equal bad. “You took me to a doctor. Great. Doctor told me to get some rest. _Greater_. I’m holding onto that prescription, by the way. Gonna be useful in the future. So what’s the difference between a hospital bed and my bed? The correct answer, by the way, is that my bed is awesome and softer and I don’t have to wear stupid dresses that show my bare ass.”

“I think the hospital might be… better?” Okay, so even Simmons has to admit that Grey can be unnerving. And the days Simmons had to spend hospitalized after the battle against Hargrove had not exactly been perfect.

But Grif still looks like shit. Grey hasn’t fixed that. Simmons wants Grif to stop looking that exhausted and defeated and _broken_.

“So you want to stare at my bare ass?” Grif snorts and Simmons wishes he could give in and grab the bait: to turn this into a meaningless banter and not a serious conversation about stuff none of them really wants to bring up.

But pillow talk isn’t what Simmons came here for.

“ _No_.” He sighs, searching for the right words. Words are stupid. At least now. None of them fit. “I just… want you… fixed.”

“Isn’t that what you say when you cut the penis off a dog?”

“ _Grif_.”

He looks at Simmons, jaw set in stubborn determination. “What?”

Simmons breathes in again before leaning forward in his seat to get closer to the bed. He tilts his head in an attempt to gain eye-contact. He knows what to ask. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

Apparently not.

Grif turns his head slightly so he’s staring at the screen behind Simmons.

Earlier today Simmons had to hold Grif in the middle of a minefield.

Grif seems to have forgotten that. As he continues to ignore Simmons, he feels something warm and uncomfortably crawling up his throat until it escapes as a frustrated groan through his mouth. He grabs the remote and turns it off. When he throws it back on the bed with an angry motion it bounces against the mattress.

Grif seems to stiffen. He keeps staring at the screen for a few seconds, very pointedly making sure not to look at Simmons before he says, “Turn it on.”

But Simmons refuses. He doesn’t say anything but just quietly moves to the edge of the bed, making sure he’s within Grif’s field of vision. He’s now blocking Grif’s view of the screen but Grif is being a dick, refusing to gain eye-contact despite Simmons’ attempts.

He waits, quietly, for Grif to take the next step.

He doesn’t. Not immediately, at least.  

Simmons pulls his legs up to the bed, getting into a somewhat comfortable position to make it clear he is willing to wait. At first, Grif seems okay with that. He stares ahead, never truly looking at Simmons.

In the silence of the room Simmons can hear Grif’s breathing speed up. As for himself, he’s pretty sure he’s forgotten how to inhale properly.

He just holds his breath as Grif’s mask finally crumbles, revealing a frown. He starts squirming, constantly moving his shoulders and shifting his weight. His eyes are darting around.

Simmons stares.

Then Grif snaps, and when he opens his mouth, it’s like waterfall. “WouldyouverypleasekindlyjustturnonthefuckingvideoifyouresjustgonnasitthereandbeweirdandquietandwhyareyouevenquietifyoucameheretotalkthatisnotfairyoucamehereandthatisgreatawesomesometimesIforgetyouarebackbutitiseasierifyouwouldjusttalkcausequietsucksitreallydoessowhyareyou-“

Simmons grows worried that Grif might pass out since he hasn’t heard him inhale once since beginning his word puke. “ _Grif_.”

Grif freezes. Blinks. Inhales deeply. “Sorry.” He starts scratching his arm while looking at the wall instead of Simmons. “Look, you wanna be here, and that’s fine, _awesome_ , I like you being here, but can we _please_ skip the bad parts? ‘cause we both know how it goes and I’m not really that big a fan of awkward silence right now, or any kinda of silence, like mad silence, are you mad? Because you look a bit-“

His speech is speeding up again and Simmons can’t follow him. He wants to.

Out of instinct he reaches out and puts a hand on Grif’s arm.

The reaction is immediate.

Grif’s eyes widen before moving upwards to meet Simmons’ stare. He can feel Grif relax under his fingers, slowly leaning into the touch. It’s so quiet he can hear his ragged breath.

Then, slowly, the moment fades and Grif starts to squirm again, apparently growing either uncomfortable or restless. Probably a bit of both.

With a quick motion, too fast for Simmons to stop him, he has the remote in his hand and the tv is on again.

Jax’ voice seems to echo through the room.

_“There he goes. The loner. The abandoned. The abandoner. Away from the herd, flying solo. Left to fend himself against the brutal nature. Will he make it? Only time will tell. Time, and a long-range walkie-talkie.”_

_“Jax, shut up_.”

Simmons has a growing suspicion that Jax and Dylan are commenting on a shot of Grif walking away but he doesn’t want to look over his shoulder to confirm. Instead he looks straight ahead, at the bags beneath Grif’s eyes.

 “You should sleep.”

“No shit.” Grif huffs, looking down at his wrist as he starts scratching a spot again. “Gonna lecture me about it?”

It’s then Simmons realizes that Grif _wants_ to be lectured.

His brain has figured out the rhythm now, a structure to the way Grif behaves. The sudden outbursts, the movie discs.

The silence. Grif starts speaking when it’s quiet. The stupid movies, the fucking interviews that ruined the whole thing in the first place… Background noise. Voices.

Grif came here to sleep. It probably shouldn’t be that big of a surprise.

The twist is that he can’t sleep. The realization is so wrong in its core – this is _Grif_ , of all people, we are talking about – that Simmons feels sick for a moment.

But Simmons understands now. He sees the pattern, and he knows what to do with it.

He scratches the back of his neck, abandoning eye-contact to stare at a stain of the blanket instead.

 “I… You…” He breathes in deeply before trying again, aiming to sound as casual as possible. “Do you know there’s an empirical law about the numbers of words we use? It’s… It’s pretty weird. We don’t know why but it all ends up as a pretty strict system. The amount of times a word is used will always be just proportional to one over its rank. The weirdest thing is how it applies to all languages! Not just English. It’s… Don’t you think it’s weird? That whenever we speak there’s this law that automatically calculate our use of words. And no one knows why. It’s probably pretty nerdy but, I guess, it’s a big mystery. Not the biggest, you know, we both know that’s…”

During his stream of words he has been watching Grif carefully from the corner of his eye. Slowly but steady Grif’s eyelids begin to drop, head beginning to hang until the chin touches his chest. Simmons has continued to speak until Grif is unable to fight the exhaustion.

Even as Grif lies in a crumbled heap on the bed, breathing revealing he is asleep, Simmons continues to speak for a few more sentences until he is sure he’s the only one awake.

Then he stops talking.

Grabbing the remote and shutting the tv off once again, the silence is now so deafening that it would have been the point where Grif would start blabbering like a madman.

With Grif breathing softly behind him, Simmons finds his communicator and messages Grey that he has found Grif. That he is alright. Sorta. That he will take him to the hospital tomorrow but for now just let him rest. That he will watch over him.

Grey sends back a thumbs up, and when Simmons has recovered from the shock that Grey is apparently the type of person who uses emojis he turns off the light in the room and slowly manages to find his way back to the chair in the darkness.

He can’t see Grif but he can hear him breathing. Slowly. It’s soothing.

He wonders if that’s how Grif feels with voices now. That it’s something to focus on, just a background noise, that is just enough to distract the brain from all the unwanted thoughts. That when you listen to it, it’s like being hypnotized, like counting sleeps, and the eyelids get heavier and heavier until-

* * *

Simmons wakes up to the sound of Grif screaming. Or at least he thinks he is. Maybe it’s more of a shout. The sound is kind of choked. Still absolutely horrible, though, and it feels like a fist to the stomach.

He grips the arms of his chair and stares into the darkness, unable to understand where and who and why and how-

There’s a sound of shuffling from the corner of the void.

There are some muffled, unintelligible words before Simmons can make out the mutter, “Who the fuck…?”

A few seconds later the light appear; blueish and sickly. The tv screen is illuminating Grif’s face: eyes wide and mouth open as he pants heavily.

Simmons is not sure which one of them is most terrified.

Grif hasn’t seen him and is apparently unaware of his presence. He’s just staring at the screen, clutching the remote tightly in his hands, listening to Dylan talking to the camera.

“ _T_ _he Reds and Blues were mostly strangers when they were first assigned here-_ “

Grif listens to her, expression matching the one of a man being granted a glass of water a moment before dying from thirst.  His breathing calms down as he focuses on the voice.

Simmons is sitting in the dark, frozen, staring, witnessing the scene like hidden camera. His cyborg eye matches the red light from a recorder.

He can’t decide whether revealing his presence would make things better or worse.

For the moment, they just both end up listening.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Simmons was in fact referring to the Zipf mystery when trying to get Grif to fall asleep. It’s super cool, and too hard to properly explain here, so if you’re a nerd go and check it out yourself.
> 
> Sorry for my absence on this site the last couple of weeks. Basically, my family is dealing with sickness right now and I’m working on my piece for the Reverse Big Bang, which has all resulted in this kinda late update.
> 
> Oh well. I got some surprises for you next week so I won’t be gone for long.
> 
> Thank you all for the support! I have been looking forward to this chapter!


	8. Inconvenient

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “But of course you’re going to be a good patient today. Right? Good. Just a minute, then we will open up your heart! Figuratively speaking, of course! Otherwise I would have brought my scalpels!”

Simmons shifts in his seat. His back is sore from sleeping upright and now, frozen in the darkness, he can feel a pang of pain shooting up his spine. Both him and the furniture groan at the movement.

Despite the movie running in the background, the sound is enough for Grif’s head to snap in his direction. He stares at Simmons with widened eyes.

Simmons stares back. The bruise on his forehead seems bigger in the dark. A sickly blue light falls on Grif’s face, and his eyes are bigger than Simmons have ever seen them before. His right eye, the brown one, almost looks black.

Noise is coming from the screen behind them, but for Simmons it’s too quiet. “Hey,” he finally says and coughs once. “Uhm, are you okay?”

“Meh,” Grif says with a shrug. His glance goes back to the screen. “Where’re the others?”

It’s a surprise that Grif has taken his presence so well so far. The fact he is suddenly asking why there aren’t more people crowded into his bedroom is confusing to say the least. “…What?”

Grif shrugs. Blinks tiredly. “I don’t know. You’re usually all here. Or, like, in teams. Except Donut. Who knows where he goes. I don’t wanna know. Do you? I mean, at least he always comes back.”

“I suppose so?” Even though most of what Grif has said was total nonsense, there is some truth in his statement about Donut. The guy just seems to have the ability to teleport at times. Or turn invisible – no, wait, that’s Locus. Simmons shakes his head and his neck aches. “I think the others are sleeping.”

“Oh, that’s weird.”

Simmons tilts his head. “Is it?”

“They usually don’t do that.”

“Sleep?”

“Right.” Grif yawns loudly. “I’m gonna sleep. ‘cause I’m lazy.”

Simmons looks at the clock on the wall. It’s only three in the morning. Way too early to return to Grey, though it won’t surprise Simmons if she’s also on nightshifts, and Grif still looks like he can use some more hours of sleep. Heck, probably an entire day worth of sleep won’t remove the bag under his eyes. “You should sleep,” he says gently.

Grif nods gravely, squinting in the darkness. “’cause I’m lazy.”

“No. Grey said you should rest. Remember?”

It takes some seconds where Grif seems to consider this. At least it seems so with the frown on his forehead. But the he suddenly lies down again, saying, “Goodnight, Simmons.”

Simmons swallows before replying, “Goodnight, Grif.”

Grif has turned himself so he’s facing the wall, not allowing Simmons to see his expression as he mumbles, “If you see Church, tell him I’m sorry and I’ll bring the pump tomorrow.”

“Sure, I’ll- Wait, what?”

But Grif is asleep, soft breathing loud enough for Simmons to hear, and yet it doesn’t feel relieving. He watches Grif’s sleeping form and wonders just what has happened.

The little voice inside his head, the one that has been screaming ever since Grif became not-Grif, says it’s a bad thing, and for a moment he considers calling Grey. Surely she will understand it’s an emergency and forgive being woken up in the middle of the night.

But there’s a chance Grif might just have been talking in his sleep. It would explain the confusing part about Church needing a pump.

Church doesn’t really need anything anymore. Especially not a pump.

The noise from the video in the background bothers him for a few minutes, but not enough to keep his eyelids from falling closed again.

* * *

When Simmons wakes up three hours later, he knows they can go to the hospital now but he can’t bring himself to wake up Grif who is lying deadly still in his bed. Grey had said he needed rest: Simmons won’t be the one to deny him it.

So he lets Grif be, waiting for him to stir, as he changes the current movie – no way is he going to watch _Legally Blond_ while alone and sober.

He chooses one of his favorites which also happens to be one of Grif’s, and when the _Star Wars_ theme starts to play, Grif starts to move.

Simmons turns in his seat to focus on him, ignoring the growing worry and the aching stiffness in his bones to instead send Grif a friendly smile. “I- Did you sleep well?”

Grif is rubbing the sleep out of his eyes but freezes when Simmons speaks. He tilts his head and stares back at him. “Just let me-.” He shuffles around for a moment before grabbing a nearby pillow which he proceeds to throw directly at Simmons.

The action is such a surprise that Simmons doesn’t think about moving and the pillows ends up bouncing off his forehead. “Ow?” he says, though the feathers did no damage, but the shock requires some sort of reaction.

“ _Oh shit_.” Grif’s eyes widen to the point where he looks terrified. “You’re-. _Fuuuuuck_.”

Simmons has a hard time following the problem, and while he knows he probably doesn’t deserve the Friend of the Year Award, he’s still trying to figure out what the deal about the pillow was. “I’m-?”

“Why the fuck are you- Simmons, did you sit there all night? Were you watching me sleep?”

“I-“

Grif doesn’t let him finish. “What is wrong with you? That’s creepy, you’re creepy, what the fuck.” He jumps out of his bed, looking panicked and desperate and confused all at once.

Simmons stands up as well, almost stumbling but his cyborg limb luckily locks in place to keep him upright. It’ll probably take a minute before the blood is running around freely in his human leg. This is the last time he sleeps like this. “Well, I had-“

“Who the fuck sleeps in a chair? You could have used the floor. Or pushed me off the bed. Or asked-“

And while Simmons would love to bitch about his sore back (because yes, sleeping in a chair is definitely a great sacrifice and an act of friendliness and he truly hopes a massage clinic has opened somewhere on Chorus) he can’t forget what Grif was implying when he threw a pillow in his face. “Grif, what do you think I was?”

Grif freezes. Silence. Then: “Creepy. You’re being a creepy nerd, Simmons.”

“N-no, I was being responsible, since you-“ Simmons trails off. While a part of him wants to grab Grif by the shoulders and shake him and let him know that running from the hospital was a terrible idea, he has a feeling it’s best not to blame Grif for anything at the moment. He has to be kind like that, until Grey is sure of what’s triggering him.

Simmons clears his throat before changing subject. “Actually, we should see Grey. And ask her. And she wants to see you. At the hospital. Now. And now’s great, it’s too early for people to be busy on the hallways – not that there’s anything wrong with going to the hospital! Well, of course you go there when something is wrong with you – as in _wrong_ with sickness and such, not wrong as in… Let’s go to the hospital.”

He quickly turns off the video and uses the same hand to reach out for Grif and gently grab his wrist. Pulling him to the hospital had worked yesterday, and Simmons is ready to use the same procedure today, just a bit gentler. Even if it means his face suddenly turning warm.

He turns his head and steers towards the door, tugging at Grif’s hand. He doesn’t freeze or hesitates or argues against it. It’s weird but relieving and Simmons leads him down the quiet hallways. They’re alone which is good.

The accident yesterday must have created so many rumors alone, and seeing the two of them walk in a holding-hands kind of manner would only spread more. And Simmons knows Grif can suddenly turn stubborn and stop following along if people comment on him going to the hospital. Simmons can’t let that happen.

So the quiet hallways are preferred though they also create a problem. But Simmons can fix it. He clears his throat, realizing he’s going to be talking for a while. Grif is just following along quietly, keeping the same pace so Simmons doesn’t even have to tug at his hand; instead he let his grip be loose, still firm enough to make sure he can’t run off into danger again, and just soft enough for their skin to touch.

“So, uhm, weather. Weather is nice. I think. Well, we’re indoors so it’s hard to judge. But rain technically shouldn’t count for bad weather: we need rain or the crops die and then we die, and that’s not a preferable outcome, so I think it’s very judgmental to call it bad just because you don’t like being wet… It should be convenient and inconvenient weather, if we want to discuss proper phrasing. I’ve heard the weather is very convenient today. Maybe. Actually, I don’t know shit about today’s weather. Should we have brought an umbrella? Wait, I don’t have an umbrella. Fuck. It’s fine. We’re fine. Weather. So, uhm, I heard they’re opening a café where the old bomb shelter used to be-”

Another good thing about being alone in the hallways: no one can witness Simmons being a mess.

They reach the hospital and Grey is waiting for them near the entrance. Simmons fastens their speed at the sight of her, knowing they’ve finally reached their goal: if Grif could just stay put this time, things would work.

“Doctor Grey! Good! I- we need you-“

They come to a halt right in front of her, and Grif cuts him off with a loud and rather baffled voice, “I think Simmons has had a mental breakdown.” He turns to stare at Simmons, looking more impressed than worried.

It occurs to Simmons that Grif has actually been listening to the amount of word puke Simmons has let out while they walked. Oh. Well, he’d never been good at improvising before, no one had expected that to change today.

“Well, that’s hardly a surprise,” Grey chirps so calmly that Simmons isn’t quite sure whether to feel offended or not. “It’s good to see you again, Grif! Please take a seat and _remain sitting_. That would make things much less complicated. People always put up a fuss when the cuffs are brought into the picture! One of the big differences between a hospital and a bedroom, hah.”

Grif glowers at Simmons in betrayal.

Grey doesn’t seem to notice. “But of course you’re going to be a good patient today. Right? Good. Just a minute, then we will open up your heart! Figuratively speaking, of course! Otherwise I would have brought my scalpels!”

“Simmons-“ Grif’s voice is wavering, and Simmons can’t really figure out if he’s going to beg for him to save him or yell at him for bringing him here in the first place. It’s probably the latter.

But Grey doesn’t let him finish. Instead she gently but swiftly grabs his shoulders and spins him around towards the nearest door. Simmons lets go of his wrist without realizing.

“Oh, I’ll deal with him! It’ll just be a minute!” she tells Grif as she shoves him into his room. She closes the door before turning around to face Simmons. “While I can’t say your delivery is the fastest I’ve seen, at least you didn’t bring him back hogtied.”

“No, he came along willingly-“

“That’s good! Makes cooperation so much easier.” Grey suddenly has a bunch of notes in her hands, and she flips through them with an impressive speed.

Simmons watches her for some seconds before coughing awkwardly. “So… About a treatment, what are you going to-“

“I’m quite well-educated in psychology, Simmons.” She looks up from her papers to stare at him. “I’ll ask him what is wrong. And he will answer me. Then we’ll take things from there, slow and steady.”

“I’ve realized some things that might help.”

“Oh?”

Simmons wrings his hands. “Grif really can’t stand silence. As in he has to sleep with his tv on. To hear the voices. We could give him a radio?” He stares at the closed door, hoping there’s a nurse in there with Grif to keep him from freaking out.

“That sounds like a brilliant idea! Well, as a temporary solution until we fix the sedatephobia. Thank you for bringing this to my attention.” She turns to head inside to the patient.

“Also,” Simmons adds carefully, “I think Grif might be hallucinating at times? He… I think he wasn’t sure if I was real. For a second. Maybe.”

Grey freezes. Her back is very straight. “I see. I’ll definitely take note of that.”

“Is there something I can-?”

“I’ll have you all called in for a group meeting later to discuss your roles in his recovery. But first I must talk with Washington and Carolina about how being trapped in a room with the rotting corpses of their friends made them feel. Today’s going to be exciting, to say the least!”

Simmons realizes just how big a part of their entire team is actually stuck in the hospital. It reminds him of the time just after the attack on Hargrove. Except… Well, things feel different this time.

“So you’ll-?”

“I’ll get my hands on you later,” she promises him.

“That sounds-“ _terrifying_ “-good. Call me if you need me to-“

“Oh, that won’t be necessary!”

Simmons shifts the weight on his feet. He looks down to stare at a spot on his boot. “Good.”

Grey nods before disappearing into the room. The door closes so quickly Simmons doesn’t even manage to look inside before the sight is blocked from him.

Simmons is left alone, feeling utterly useless until a nurse bumps into and asks for him to move to the side of the room – at his point, he feels more like a nuisance than useless.

But there’s one thing he can do: give the others an update. They haven’t heard what’s happened since the accident yesterday, and maybe the Blues haven’t even been informed of Grif’s actions. Simmons checks Wash’s room, but the Freelancer is asleep and alone. For once.

No one is using the bathroom, meaning Tucker must finally have left the hospital to eat breakfast with the others. A surprising change, but at least it means Simmons won’t have to repeat himself all day.

So he heads down from where he came from, slower this time, almost dragging his feet. His hands feel empty. But at least it isn’t raining. Convenient.

He uses a bridge to get from one building to another, looking out of the window to see the sun rising. He continues to walk, hands in his pockets.

Chorus is awake now, and the hall he enters is swarming with people. He still manages to spot his some of his friends in the corner of the room: aqua, blue and pink colors catch his eye.

They haven’t started eating yet, and Tucker waves a hand, signaling for Simmons to come join them.

He takes a step forward to do so.

Then a door slams open with such a mighty _bang_ that everyone freezes.

Simmons remembers being afraid of girls. Meeting Tex and Carolina hadn’t exactly calmed that fear, but Jensen had helped, and eventually he’d grown used to commanding the rest of his team. Even without stuttering once!

But right now, seeing Kaikaina Grif marching straight towards him in full body-armor, steps large and angry and powerful, and with her fists clenched-

Simmons has never feared a woman this badly before in his life.

“ _BITCH_!”

Later he isn’t quite sure if he fainted from fear or if the punch to his face just knocked him out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *plays with light switch to create dramatic entrance* INTRODUCING KAI TO THIS STORY! Oh yeah!
> 
> Sorry for the wait. One of my parents ended up in the hospital for a week, and that really kept me from touching this story, since I didn’t feel like writing any scenes involving hospitals. But things are better now.
> 
> Thank you for your support!


	9. There Is No Try

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "That’s not good. Are we going to see the mad doctor or the scary doctor?”  
> Donut pulls a white handkerchief from out of nowhere and starts dabbing the sore. “Are we talking about Doc?”  
> “I hope not,” Simmons mutters darkly and winches.

Tucker whistles as he helps Simmons sit up. “That’s gonna leave a mark.”

Simmons believes that. When his fingers tentatively brush against the area near his right eye he feels something wet and hot. _Oh_. He tries to open it – which proves a hard task with the swelling – and sees red.

He knows that red is the symbol of victory and glory and all that but right now he can’t help but think: “Oh shit.”

“I’m sure we can fix it.” Donut appears in his limited vision that’s blurred in the sides. “I have just the concealer-“

Tucker is snorting. “What – one that covers blood?”

“You’d be surprised what I can cover up,” Donut lets him know with a teasing smile.

“Isn’t it a rule for you guys that you aren’t allowed to hide anything red?”

“The blasphemy rule is set aside during war time.”

“I’m bleeding,” Simmons says numbly, looking at his blood-stained fingers. “Oh my god.”

Tucker kneels down next to him. His lips are pursed as he nods in agreement. “Yeah, she got you good.”

“ _Oh my god_.” He reaches up to touch the sore spot again and – yep, it still hurts – winches. He tries to remember what happened but it’s all a blurred mess of panic and fear, but Tucker mentioned a ‘ _she’_ and it sparks his memory. “ _Oh. My. God.”_

“Don’t worry,” Donut says and pats his knee comfortingly. “You know Sarge approves of battle scars.”

“Hah, I hardly think this counts as a _battle_. Kai got you with one punch.” Tucker laughs briefly, placing a hand on his shoulder, but then a grown appears on his otherwise amused expression. “What the fuck - every girl we know is now officially terrifying. Never thought Kai would go all monster on our asses, bow-chicka-bow-wow- _ow_."

Out of nowhere a high-heeled shoe comes flying through the air, just barely missing Tucker’s face. Later Simmons would wonder just where the fully-armored Kai got the shoe from.

“ _YOU BETTER BELIEVE IT, BITCH!”_

Tucker cowers on the floor, hands flying up protect his head. “I thought she’d left!” he whines, moving behind Simmons just in case.

Simmons tries to switch places so that Tucker is the shield in case she returns, but as he looks around the hall he sees no yellow armor. Just a crowd surrounding him from all sides, staring at him. Former soldiers who had their meal interrupted and are now looking at the guy who just got his ass kicked by a girl.

The ones polite enough to save him the humiliation try to pretend they are looking at something else – right, as if the menu is suddenly that interesting – but most of them are glaring at him with widened eyes.

Simmons can feel the blood trickle down his nose, dripping on the floor.

“Is the scary lady gone?” Caboose whispers from behind a bench.

Someone in the crowd coughs awkwardly, and then people begin to move, chatting quietly among themselves and pretending to totally not see the bleeding mess in the middle of the hall.

“Looks like she marched out. I like her walk – so confident.”

“Oh, it’s not confidence she’s lacking,” Tucker snorts. Believing the coast is clear, he dares to stand upright again.

“It’s manners,” Caboose says fearfully and nods to prove his point. He reaches for the bleeding gash – or at least Simmons thinks so since it’s still hard to judge with one eye unable to open – but retracts his hand before he can touch it. “That’s not good. Are we going to see the mad doctor or the scary doctor?”

Donut pulls a white handkerchief from out of nowhere and starts dabbing the sore. “Are we talking about Doc?”

“I hope not,” Simmons mutters darkly and winches.

“Yeah, I’d go with Grey,” Tucker says. A moment later he’s frowning. “But I’d probably wait…”

“Why?” There’s only that much blood in his body and from the looks of it, the floor has stolen a lot.

“’cause Kai is marching there to see Grif, that’s why.”

“Oh.”

They sit there for a while, on the floor, while the rest of the room makes sure to walk in a circle around them.

“Meh,” Tucker then says and offers a hand to pull Simmons up, “can’t stop me from visiting Wash. And you look like shit. Let’s go get you stitched up.”

“What happened?” Simmons asks as he stumbles out of the hall. People are still glaring at him. He suddenly realizes most of the stares aren’t exactly kind.

He remembers the panic and fear when Kai had been storming towards him, and that’s it. The rest of it is a painful blur until he’d opened his eyes and half of his vision had been red.

“Well, Kai came and punched you in the face. But you’ve probably figured that out by now.”

“Did she say _why_?”

“Pretty sure someone told her _a_ version of what happened at the minefield. Where you’re sorta to blame.”

“What does she think I did?”

“I don’t know. But probably not something that made you popular around here.”

“I was never popular,” Simmons chuckles half-heartedly, and his shoulders sag from the many angry, quiet stares thrown in his direction.

For a moment he thinks he sees orange-colored armor near the doorway, but he isn’t sure.

* * *

He needs three stitches to help his cut eyebrow heal. The nurse actually chuckles as she points out how unlucky he is: if Kai had gone for the left eye, the metal patch would have absorbed the damage much better. But nope – Kai had chosen his human eye that still has the ability to swell and bleed, and now he’s forced to walk around looking like the loser of last night’s wrestling match.

He might have been able to pull of the look if he had the muscles and threatening demeanor that go along with it, but Simmons is lanky and awkward, and he just looks like the chess nerd that gets beat up by the popular soccer player.

It brings back high school memories, actually.

It doesn’t help that Kai had been fully armored, and that the gloves had allowed her to break skin. Now he’ll have a nice scar to remind him of the time he got beat up by Grif’s sister.

Simmons wants to think the day can’t get any worse, but he doesn’t dare to do so – his life has taught him that it’s too easy to jinx stuff.

He stands in the middle of a hospital hallway and wonders where to go next.

He tries to visit Grif’s room, thinking Grey must have finished their first session by now, but Kai suddenly appears in the doorway, like a shark circling for a next prey.

Simmons is in the other end of the hall when he spots her, and he instinctively ducks his head. He stares at the floor as he turns around and walks away. He’ll have to visit Grif later.

He considers checking in on Tucker and Wash who might be awake and somewhat coherent today but…

He doesn’t want to.

Sarge will probably interrogate him later, seeing how Kai is Blue who just assaulted a Red. Not that Simmons can blame her for anything. He probably deserved that punch.

Simmons wants to nap. It suddenly occurs to him that it might be the wisest thing to do right now. He’s sure Grif would agree.

He walks to his room with sunken shoulders and hopes the headache will be gone when he wakes up.

* * *

The next couple of days are… weird.

He can’t meet up with Grif in the mornings, can’t ask him what he thinks about life or crack jokes about Donut’s talks of opening a vegan bakery with Doc (‘cause _The Donut-hole_ is a peeeerfect name).

In fact, he can’t even visit Grif because Kai is watching him like a hawk. Simmons spends the first day walking up and down the hallway, waiting for a moment she might leave for the toilet or anything.

5 hours later Simmons realizes the hospital rooms are connected with their own bathroom and Kai does in fact not have an amazing bladder.

Finally he gathers the courage to try and demand to see Grif, but Kai appears before he can even step inside. The door is closed behind her. Her helmet is off, and she is close enough for him to see the angry lightnings in her pupils. The anger distracts him so it takes some seconds before he realizes how puffy and bloodshot the eyes are.

Something heavy settles in his stomach.  “I, uh…”

“What do you want?” she demands to know. She fills the entire doorway and Simmons feels very small.

“Is Grif okay?”

“Since when do you care?” she snaps at him. “Backstabbing cockbites don’t care. Go away.”

Simmons’ jaw drops.

Kai keeps glaring at him until his brain switch into auto-pilot and follows the orders given to him, because that’s what he does best.

* * *

The next day he tries to ask Grey how Grif is doing, and her answer is as comforting as an answer from Grey can be. His recovery is _interesting,_ which he guesses is something positive, and she says he won’t be hospitalized longer than necessary.

His treatment will still continue after he’s discharged, however. Traumas are tricky like that.

“Trauma?” Simmons sputters when she mentions the word.

“Trauma _s_ ,” she corrects him cheerfully, eyes on her papers, “Plural. Things always tend to get more complicated once we reach the childhood. Plenty of stuff to dig into!”

She leaves because someone from the eastern part of the city has begun to throw up some kind of blue substance, and she isn’t sure if they’re dealing with an upcoming epidemic or that the new sodas Chorus imported have some interesting side effects. 

He can actually open his right eye now, which is something, but Sarge isn’t too pleased with the blue color that is now decorating his face. He isn’t too happy about the fact that a Blue did it, either.

They’ll be having a meeting with Grey tomorrow about _the situation_ (which is the most common nickname since no one wants to say “how Grif almost got himself killed – maybe because of us” out loud – maybe with the exception of Sarge but he doesn’t even sound proud this time), and maybe he’ll see Grif there. He isn’t sure. He doubts it.

Kai is still watching him, and Simmons doesn’t want his cyborg lens shattered. He keeps his distance.

He wanders around on Chorus, wondering what to do now when he doesn’t have a mission to focus on. Before, back on the moon, he’d had Grif and they’d both wondered what to do together.

But now Simmons is alone, and none of the Freelancers are well enough to lead training exercises, and Sarge is still looking for an army to fight and Donut is keeping Caboose company while Tucker is in the hospital during visiting hours.

So he watches the city and how it has grown, and it pleases him to see how _normal_ the planet is becoming.

It’s a comforting sight.

Until he realizes no one seems too happy with his presence. It starts with a few snorts, then a few angry glares, and then it becomes rather obvious that people fall quiet when he comes too close.

It takes too long to recall some of the displeased faces, and the names continue to evade his memory, but he eventually remembers the group of young men in front of him used to wear orange armor. Grif’s team.

“Do you need anything?” one of them asks, rather harshly.

Simmons’ cheeks grow hot as he realizes he’s been staring bluntly. He should just have stayed in bed. “Uhm, no.”

“Good.”

“Yeah. I’ll just… Uhm… Good day!”

It’s Jensen who eventually explains what’s going on. She stops by his room where he spends the rest of the day hiding, and she knocks politely before stepping inside. She’s bringing a gift basket with two get-well cards. Simmons tries not to frown when he realizes she’s signed both of them, though one of them has “Red Squad” written before her name.

“I heard you were in the hoshpital and I thought thish could ssheer you up, shir!” she says and gives him the basket filled with muffins. They look home-baked and absolutely delicious.

Simmons really wants to use them for comfort eating (Grif has numerous times insisted it’s a quick way to feel better, and Simmons really wants to not feel like shit right now) but decides to save them for Grif when he sees him again.

He thanks her.

She starts wringing her hands, unsure of whether to leave or not. “That looksh really painful,” Jensen eventually says and nods towards his eye.

“Yeah…”

“It’sh a shhame she didn’t pick the right eye,” she chuckles nervously. Her eyes are as kind as ever.

The girls that haven’t tried to harm Simmons are few enough to be counted on one hand now.

“It could have gone better,” he admits. He hesitates and reaches up to rub the back of his neck. The air feels very stuffed. He should air out his room soon. “Have you, uh, have you by chance heard any rumors? About me? Maybe?”

Jensen’s eyes flickers to the side of the room. “Why would you think that, shir?”

“Bitters has been saying stuff about me, hasn’t he? I’m not saying he’s wrong or anything, I just-“

“Oh, he’s definitely wrong, shir! We all know you’re not a big, mean bully!”

“ _Bully_?”

Jensen is twiddling her thumbs. “’ _Bully’_ might not be the word he ushed… It’s wash actually quite meaner. I told him not be rude. We only saw what happened at the minefield from a dishtance, so we can’t jump to any-”

“Wait, what does he think I did?”

“Well, we saw Captain Grif walk out, and that’s terrible. And… we know the tone can be a bit harssh when speaking to Captain Grif, only friendly teashing of courshe, but Bittersh thinksh that you might have been… very harsh? It’sh hard to say. But Gold Team, or Former Gold Team, or Orange Team now when I think of it – they think Captain Grif is in the hospital because of-“

“-me,” Simmons finishes for her.

“Oh, not just you, shir! The other Captains as well! And the Colonel! But you included!” She lowers her tone. “But of courshe we all know they’re wrong, shir. I’m shure this ish something that’s been building up inside Captain Grif for a while! And that he’ll be well soon!”

Maybe. Hopefully.

But that doesn’t exactly make Simmons less guilty.

* * *

Grif has to know the truth. That Simmons didn’t tell him to go into the minefield. Because he didn’t. He’s sure of that. Simmons has tried to remember the exact conversation from that day in detail, and he only recommended the metal detectors! That’s like the opposite of using Grif as the explosive detector!

But Simmons doesn’t know if Grif knows that he should know that Simmons didn’t tell Grif to go into a minefield, and Grif certainly doesn’t know that the rest of the planet think they know what they don’t know. It’s frustrating. And it’s giving Simmons a headache.

So now he’s sneaking into the hospital at 2am. He needs to know. He needs to talk with Grif. And there’s no way Kai could be guarding the door _now_.

Grif will probably be happy to see him. He’ll definitely laugh at the sight of the shiner. Maybe he’ll think the stiches are too much. Simmons hopes that will be the case.

It’s way past visiting hours so he quietly walks down the hallway. Someone coughs in the room he just walks past, and he almost screams in surprise. Almost.

He’s in his civils because his armor would make his footsteps too heavy. It’s weird to be sneaking without a rifle in his hands. That’s… disconcerting.

“Good evening, Simmons. Or midnight, if we’re trying to be correct!”

“I’m not- this isn’t- I’m on a very special mission and- _Hi_. I’m sorry. Please don’t kick me out,” he whimpers.

It doesn’t help that it’s Grey who suddenly opened a door and casted light upon his crouched form. It looks like an office of some sort. He can see various screens from here and the blue light fills the room.

“Well, I can’t let you disturb my patients’ sleep. That would go against their recovery process.”

“I need to talk with Grif.”

“ _Oh_.” Grey tilts helmeted head. “Well, he isn’t here!”

“He isn’t- Has he been discharged? I thought, well, I thought I’d be notified if-“

“He hasn’t been discharged. He’s breaking out of the hospital!”

“Oh.” Simmons blinks. Waits. He’d kinda thought there would be more added to that sentence but Grey remains silent. So he’s forced to ask, “…Isn’t that a bad thing?”

“I got the situation handled.” Before he can react a hand closes around his wrist and he’s dragged inside what turns out to be a monitoring room. There are screens everywhere, apparently connected to various surveillance cameras since they show black-and-white footage of different areas of the hospital.

“I had to install some extra cameras after the little breakout,” she says and offers Simmons a chair. “But of course Grif doesn’t know that. I suppose it does count as cheating, so let’s keep this our little secret.”

“Cheating?” Simmons says and she points at the screen in front of him.

It shows Grif… and Carolina. They’re in a darkened hallway, moving around as if they were in a _Mission Impossible_ movie, and they’re obviously unaware that they’re being watched.

“Uhm, shouldn’t we stop them or…?”

“Oh no, that would do great damage to his self-esteem!” When Simmons just blinks in confusion, Grey turns in her seat and explains, “It would seem that Carolina has finally grown tired of her hospital stay. And since Grif is the only one who has been successful in ‘escaping my clutches’ as they call it, she went to him. It’s actually very important to his progress. She trusted him enough to ask for advice, and now he’s proving his worth.”

“So we’ll just let them be?”

“Why yes! We can make sure they don’t get into trouble from here!”

Simmons wants to be surprised that Grey spends her nights monitoring her patients, but it actually fits her character quite well. Right now he’s just somewhat grateful someone is keeping an eye on Grif. Still, he’s pretty sure she has a package of snack peanuts next to one of the screens. “Is this an entertainment sort of thing?” he can’t help but ask, watching Grif and Carolina crawl into a vent from the corner of his eye.

“Grifball isn’t exactly that exciting once you’ve tried having your hands inside an open chest cavity! Talk about adrenalin! Besides, the post-game injuries always clog the hospital! Quite tiring after a while.”

“But,” Simmons says and hopes he doesn’t sound like a complete idiot, “shouldn’t they stay in the hospital? When they’re patients?”

“Oh, Carolina is getting discharged this morning! I just forgot to mention that little detail to her. And as for Grif – as long as he shows up for his daily sessions he can sleep in his own bed. He does need a sort of supervisor to make sure things don’t go out of hand again. What a luck Carolina is right next to him – and that she’s qualified for the role!”

“Is she?”

“Of course! The two of them have actually grown quite the bond – I heard of Grif’s little relaxation course on the moon. Time to repay the favor. The two of them can help each other in the long run.”

And Simmons can see Carolina freeze on the screen as Grey informs her of her new responsibility through her communicator. First she stares at Grif who’s peaking around a corner. Then she turns her head, trying to spot the camera she now knows is there.

Grey leans back in her seat, seemingly satisfied with her work.

Simmons can’t help but feel they’re all just pawns in a fully arranged plan inside Grey’s genius brain.

He just wishes he could be a useful pawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Props to Creatrixanimi for Tucker’s lines on Kai going monsters on their asses, and for the fact that Simmons now is scarred for life. A black eye just couldn’t do it. We needed something permanent. 
> 
> So today I’ve been informed I just got my first apartment. I’ll be moving out next month. This happens on top of a sick parent and writing my project for the university. And freaking Christmas month. I don’t know how this will affect my writing since I use writing as a stress relief but if my updates turn slow it’s simply because I am busy with a crazy life.
> 
> Thank you so much for all your support! I hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	10. Nice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Instead, we’ll be discussing your current team chemistry.”  
> “Nitroglycerin, sorbents and some good ol’ stabilizers.”  
> “While that is a correct formula for dynamite, I don’t think it’ll improve the mental health overall. In fact, you’d just increase the chances of your men blowing up! Which is the core of the issue we will hopefully fix today!”

“Nice?” Simmons asks, confused. He blinks and winches because it pulls the sore skin near his right eye. He hadn't look any prettier today when he’d looked in the mirror this morning.

Grey nods. “Nice.”

“ _Nice_ ,” Tucker comments, not without a snort.

“I have been saying this for years!” Donut exclaims with his hands folded in his lap. “Things turn quite rough at times, and I don’t think we’ve are all comfortable with it. I, for one, am not.”

“If Caboose doesn’t have to attend the nice-meeting, why is Donut here?” Tucker asks and points at the pink soldier sitting next to him at the long table inside Grey’s office.  “The guy bakes muffins for the enemies.”

“I’m just saying it’s time to change the slogan into something more positive: _Join the good side – we have diet friendly cookies._ ”

Grey folds her hands. There are a lot of papers in front of her, and a pen next to them for her to take notes. “Well, I think Red Team would do better with someone there to remind the more _forgetful_ individuals of what we’ll learn here today.”

All heads turn to stare at Sarge.

“Nonsense,” he huffs. “Simmons is always in charge of the taking the minutes. Sometimes, he even takes the hours.”

“But only on special occasions,” Simmons adds helpfully, because he remembers his own contract so clearly, “and with overtime pay.”

Tucker leans back in his seat, crossing his arms. “So Donut is on the nice list, and the rest of us are on the naughty list. Are we getting coal at the end of this?”

“Oh no! The fuel reserves on Chorus are far too limited for us to waste resources like that.”

“I’d recommend green energy,” Simmons says, “if we are taking up this discussion.” He isn’t sure – in fact, he highly doubts – that Grey wants his input, but honestly, he wishes this meeting would be about renewable energy and not about all the mistakes they have made. It would be less awkward that way. _And_ they could ensure the future generations of Chorus a green life.

“We aren’t,” Grey replies quickly and with a firm voice. She corrects her papers, tapping on them with a finger. “Instead, we’ll be discussing your current team chemistry.”

“Nitroglycerin, sorbents and some good ol’ stabilizers.”

“While that is a correct formula for dynamite, I don’t think it’ll improve the mental health overall. In fact, you’d just increase the chances of your men blowing up! Which is the core of the issue we will hopefully fix today!”

“You mean the fact that Grif lost his mind?” When Simmons sends him a sharp glance from across the table, Tucker adds, “Momentarily.”

“That is a very rough way of putting it, Tucker,” Grey says, “But yes. A good mix of depressive thoughts, childhood traumas, abandonment issues, a crumbling self-esteem and a lost touch with reality led him to that silly stunt. But progress is happening, of course, and I thought it would be fitting for you to play a part in his recovery. That, and it would be a shame for you to give him another final push towards a minefield.”

“So you want us to be nice?” Simmons concludes again. The sentence feels strange in his mouth. He knows they are all assholes. So much have been clear since their first day in Blood Gulch. Some are less assholes than others and can get distracted by butterflies (Caboose) or enjoy making gift baskets to convert the enemies (Donut). Some are bigger assholes who likes to use immature jokes as insults (Tucker) and some just likes to spend their quiet evenings making plans about the total annihilation of the other team (Sarge).

But they are not evil. Them bringing down corrupt organizations and fighting space pirates proved that, right? They are the good guys.

“That’s easy!” Donut says and clasps his hands together in excitement. “Do you want us to start with table or bed manners? Because I think we could use a bit of both.”

“Well, I’m a firm believer of learning by doing – especially when the _‘learning’_ includes colorful experiments I get to observe from a safe distance.” There’s a knock on the door and Grey turns in her seat. “Oh, he’s here. Let me grab the recorder while he informs you of the exercise.”

They all freeze, sensing the suspicious excitement in her voice.

“ _He_?” Simmons asks.

“ _Exercise_?” Tucker says, and a moment after they all remember the last time they had been forced through a counselling session that included practical exercises. “Oh no.”

“What the fuck is he doing here?” Simmons says at the sight of Doc walking into the room. The exclamation has more layers to it this time. Like, you’d always ask why Doc is here. Especially when no one, ever, wants him around. But now, remembering how Doc had supported the enemies, the question is more bitter than ever.

Of course Sarge had betrayed them too but that had been totally different. Naturally. Besides, Doc had known about the assholes for years.

Doc tsks at his tone. “Because, Simmons, I know quite a bit about suppressing a bad a dark side of myself and sticking to my manners.” He coughs which sounds like an attempt to keep down the evil laughter crawling up his throat.

Grey stands next to him. “And, if I might add, I was quite impressed with how he handled the tension between Kimball and our dearly missed General Doyle.”

“But… He didn’t do anything!” Simmons says and throws his hands in the air. “The armies first learned how to work together a long time _after_ Doc tried to have his therapy session! Which failed!”

“Excuse me, Simmons, but there is something called belated results.”

Simmons is still scowling at Doc when Tucker asks, “Uhm, shouldn’t Grif be present in this session where we’re apparently, you know, learning how to deal with Grif.”

“Oh dear, no, I can’t let you tear down what little process he’s made in last couple of days. So instead you’ll have to compliment each other! I know all new steps can seem scary, but I’m sure you’ll manage.”

Doc nods gravely before sitting down. “I think we should just as well start at the deep end. Sarge, could you please tell us all three nice things about Tucker?”

“The Blue?” Sarge asks slowly, as if sensing a trap.

Doc nods again. “The Blue.”

Sarge lets out a considering sound. “Nice, you say?”

“Yes. Nice. Positive. And, if you can make him smile, you get extra points.”

“What are the points for?” Simmons asks because he hasn’t been aware this is a game. Or that it’s possible to earn better scores by completing certain tasks.

“To boost your confidence!”

Simmons wants to sigh. That’s just the stupid answer from the teachers in middle school when they’d run out of medals. “That’s stupid.”

Doc tilts his head in his direction. “Don’t you want any extra points, Simmons?”

“Yes, but-“

“ _But_ ’s won’t bring you them! It’s time to lighten up your attitude!”

Donut raises a hand in the air. “Oooh! Can I try?”

But Grey is as merciless as always and is set on their victim. “We already have a first participant. Sarge.”

All glances are set on the Red Team leader who does not shrink under the attention. He grumbles for some seconds, revealing he is thinking deeply about this. And finally, he turns to face Tucker. “I suppose if we have to speak the truth… You are not the bluest blue.”

“Thanks?”

“In fact, you are more like the mutated color that was once blue.”

“Aqua,” Tucker corrects him the same moment that Simmons says, “Cyan.”

Tucker looks at him, a sigh in his voice as he senses another color debate growing. “Really?”

“And,” Sarge continues, to everyone’s surprise, “I suppose punching a tank to death is a useful skill.”

Simmons narrows his eyes and asks the entire table, “But is it? _Really_?”

“Ahem.” Grey clears her throat to remind him just why they are here and how she has made it clear only positivity is allowed today. And since Simmons doesn’t want the Doctor’s disappointment (or anger) he falls quiet and ducks his head.

Maybe Sarge is going for those extra points because he is still trying to find that third praise. But he seems to have run out of neutral compliments, and he has to think for a long time before he finally says, “And… Hm… You are not Grif.”

Grey makes a loud buzzer noise. “Can somebody tell me where Sarge went wrong in his conversation?”

“Ooh, I know!” Donut says – is he going for the extra points as well? Or is he just trying to impress Grey? Or _Doc_?

“Uhm, I feel like you are fishing for something specific, but I just want to point out that a color can’t be mutated, and Tucker is in fact cyan,” Simmons has to tell her. But when Grey is slowly turning her head towards him, he adds in a rush, “ _And_ he should not have used Grif as an insult.”

“Good job!” she says, and for a brief moments Simmons has the smallest smile on his face. “See, now when we’ve learned how to spot the problem, next step is for the problem not to appear at all!”

“Do we seriously have to sit through this?” Tucker asks, still eying Doc just to be sure. “I mean, some of us obviously do, but the rest of us knows when to shut up. Sometimes.”

“Well, it’s either this or we can go through the standard protocol of how to deal with explosive-caused injuries, because that seems to be the alternative!”

* * *

Grif and Carolina are the last to join them, and Simmons wants to know where they have been but he can’t bring himself to ask. But maybe Grif will tell them about later if the dinner goes well enough for the mood to allow it.

And Simmons highly doubts that will happen.

Grif has shoveled food onto his plate and is about to sit down in front of Simmons when he freezes, jaw dropping. “Holy fuck, what’s with your face?” he asks, almost falling down into his seat in shock.

Simmons has heard the questions so many times before that the reply comes automatically, “I went through a cyborg surgery.” His cheeks don’t blush any longer. Instead his shoulders just rise into a defensive stance.

“No fucking shit, Terminator, I’ve known you for years, and I got stuck with your leftovers,” Grif asks, pointing at him with a fork. “I’m asking about who apparently punched the shit out of you?”

“Oh…”

Everyone is staring at them now. Simmons doesn’t even have to look to be sure.

Grif shifts in his seat. “What?” he asks, unsure of what they are thinking.

Kai must not have told him then. Huh. Simmons isn’t sure whether that is a good thing or not. A part of him is just happy that the nightmare scenario of Kai informing her brother that she’s punched Simmons ‘cause he’s a jackass and Grif laughing in agreement apparently hasn’t happened.

“She was very mad,” Caboose says. He’s quiet for a brief moment before completely spilling the beans, “And yellow.”

“ _What_?”

Grif is staring at Simmons again, eyes wide. The bags under his eyes aren’t that visible anymore. That’s nice.

“I, uhm, made a mistake,” Simmons says and twirls his fork in the gravy.

Tucker is sitting next to Grif and he leans closer to pat his shoulder. “Your sister beat his ass.”

“Technically, she beat his face,” Donut corrects, as if it is a good thing she left his ass alone. Actually, putting it like that, it’s probably a good thing she went for the face.

“Did you flirt with her?” Grif asks Simmons sharply, and he almost jolts in shock. Grif’s eyes are narrowed now. “‘cause I told her to beat you up if any of you guys tried anything.”

Donut clears his throat loud enough to gain the attention. “To keep the conversation _positive_ , I just want you to know, Grif, that your sister has proven herself very capable of protecting herself.”

Grif turns to face him and rolls his eyes. “Yeah. I already know that. I’ve seen her break a guy’s hand with her pinkie.”

Carolina is sitting next to him, apparently fulfilling the role Grey has given her. She’s been quiet so far, but when she hears Grif’s comment, she raises an eyebrow and says in an amused voice, “I want to learn that trick.”

“Wait, does that mean you _can’t_ do that move?” Tucker frowns and tilts his head. “You disappoint me, Carolina.”

“Well, I haven’t tried.” With a smug voice, she leans over the table to gain eye-contact. “Do you want to volunteer?”

Before Tucker can answer (and the answer would obviously have been ‘ _NO!’_ ) Sarge huffs, “I still claim it was a cowardly attack by a Blue trai-“

Donut clears throat, imitating Doctor Grey earlier at today’s meeting.

Sarge is growling now, trying to figure out how to continue. Simmons has to admit he saves it somewhat well. “-ned very skilled girl. Simply breathtaking. Especially when she punches you in the chest.”

Grif has barely taken a bite of his dinner which says a lot about how stunned he is. He’s staring at all of them, turning his head to stare at their expressions. His mouth is open. Finally his gaze lands on Simmons. “Uhm, what the fuck did you guys do with Grey today?”

Simmons fills his mouth with rice to he can’t answer. He doesn’t really want to admit they’ve been trained the entire day on how to treat Grif with respect and gentleness.

He’s pretty sure Grif would be more uncomfortable with it than Simmons.

It’s Caboose who eventually answers his question. “They went to school,” he says bitterly, “without me.”

Grif turns towards the Blue. “ _Nice_. Did you nap?”

“No.” He looks disappointed. “It wasn’t naptime.”

“It’s always naptime,” Grif lets him know and finally begins to cut his food.

Simmons swallows. Grey had him read a pamphlet about depressive thoughts. It’d mentioned sleeping a lot. Simmons stares at Grif. Then he remembers Grif has always slept a lot. And then he starts wondering if that’s a good thing, or if it’s just laziness. Why didn’t the pamphlet specify? Simmons is not trained to tell apart different types of naps.

He suddenly becomes aware that Grif has noticed his intense stare and is now returning it. He raises an eyebrow at Simmons, quietly asking what the fuck is going on with him. Simmons wishes he could answer.

Instead he forgets how to chew, and he just ends up glaring at Grif with his mouth full of food. “You look nice,” he says, rice falling from his lips and onto the table.

When he realizes what he’s just said, he starts choking.

It feels like he’s coughing up his lungs, and his vision is so blurred with tears that he can’t see Grif’s reaction. It’s probably for the best.

“That was a very nice thing of you to say, Simmons,” Donut says and reaches over to pat his back. More rice falls from his mouth to the table. Donut nods towards Grif. “And I agree. That glow in your cheeks is adorable.”

They aren’t wrong. Grif looks… _better_. He doesn’t look that exhausted any longer. There was a small grin in his eyes earlier when he’d been talking with Caboose. He’s wearing normal clothes, and not that stupid hospital dress. He seems normal. Acts normal. That has to be good. Grey must be very effective.

Right now Grif is actually looking rather horrified – and a bit embarrassed. Carolina, sitting next to him, just looks amused.

“What do you say, Sarge?” Donut asks in a tone that clearly demands for Sarge to continue the praise. Donut has learned a lot at the meeting earlier.

Sarge grunts. “The extra blood in your somewhat not a hundred percent mutilated face, caused by the satisfying feeling of distress, does not, physically, displease me. Yet.”

Grif blinks. “…What?”

“Do you want me to repeat it?” Sarge growls at him.

Donut tsks again. “Sarge, I think your tone is getting a little harsh.”

“Was that- holy shit, was that compliment?” Something amused settles in Grif’s eyes. He leans forwards as he asks, voice amazed, “Sarge, are you praising me?”

“I am not directly or indirectly not saying that I would deny any objections to me not agreeing on the not-specific terms that may or may not have taken place, depending on which person would choose to ask or not ask, should the question be proven contradictory.”

“Wow.”

Carolina raises her eyebrows. “You would be a good politician,” she finally says.

“Don’t give him any ideas,” Grif snorts next to her. He tilts his head. His eyes are still amused but they have changed – they are calculating his possibilities now. “Hey, Sarge, what do you think about good-for-nothing dirty Blues?”

“Hmmmm… I support Grif in all his opinions. Especially the correct ones.”

“Smooth,” Tucker says, and even Simmons has to admit that Sarge is doing oddly well in this challenge.

Grif is squinting now, and his arms are crossed. “Are we sure nobody is holding a gun at Sarge right now?”

Caboose holds up hands to prove that he is indeed not carrying any weapons.

With that cleared up, Grif just frowns. “So this is, what, creep each other out by saying nice stuff? Because I haven’t signed up for anything.”

“Can I try?” Caboose asks him. He is shaking a little, as if he’s about to burst open with all his ready compliments flying out.

Grif snorts. “Sure. Go for it.”

Carefully looking him over, Caboose takes his time before deciding what part of Grif he wants to praise. “It’s a nice bracelet,” he finally says, pointing.

Simmons follows his finger, and sees the white wristband Grif is wearing. It’s the only sign of the fact that Grif has in fact been hospitalized.

Grif quickly withdraws his hand and puts in under the table. He uses the other hand to stab his potato, slowly mashing it. He says nothing, and no one else at the table opens their mouth either.

Caboose looks utterly confused at the sudden silence.

If the dinner hadn’t earned the title as the most awkward dinner ever – of all time – before, it certainly has now.


	11. Amigo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I know what happened at _No Man’s Land_. And I’m not talking about the lesbian bar!”

Simmons knows that Kai is flexible.

He’s seen things.

From a distance, of course, through the scope of a sniper rifle. Sarge had ordered him to keep an eye on the Blues and Simmons had followed orders and he’d ended up seeing more than he he’d been prepared for. How Kaikaina Grif’s joints still work is a mystery to him.

But now, watching Grif do yoga with Carolina, he wonders if flexibility is something that runs in the Grif family. He’s never seen Grif do weird stuff with his knee before – and Simmons is very grateful to never having witnessed that – but right now he is 45 percent sure that Grif’s back might be broken, and he really doesn’t think that’s something Grey would approve of.

Well, maybe it is. Yoga is supposed to do wonders. He’s heard that before. But still – that position can’t be comfortable.

It’s morning, and Simmons has been pacing around since he woke up way too early. Some people would be spending their time doing stretches in the soft light of the sunise – and apparently Grif and Carolina belong to that sort of people.

Simmons remembers Grif’s relaxation course back on Chorus – _“Be Grif – By Grif”_ as Grif had described it – and while he knows meditation had been involved, he isn’t sure if this yoga thing is Grif’s or Carolina’s idea. But Grif seems to be good at it, and he bends forward in an elegant arc and Simmons is most certainly not staring at his ass.

He slowly walks closer, and when they hear his footsteps they stand up and finally get their bodies in a normal, human position.

Grif looks surprised but not displeased with his appearance and he raises an eyebrow. The events of last night’s dinner are still fresh in Simmons’ mind, and his eyes unconsciously drift towards Grif’s wrist but he’s wearing a long-sleeved hoodie.

Carolina steps forward before Simmons has even decided what to say. “Is there something you need?” she asks helpfully, voice gentle. It’s a pleasant change since most people have been looking at Simmons with disdain in their eyes all week.

“I, uhm, came to…” Simmons isn’t even sure at this point. “Can I talk with Carolina?” he asks and surprised himself.

Apparently Grif and Carolina feel the same, and they both raise a questioning eyebrow.

Simmons wrings his hands. “Alone?” he adds, and hopes it doesn’t sound like he is pleading.

Carolina turns to face Grif. “Are you-“

“-gonna steal your bag of peanuts when you turn your back to me?” he cuts her off with a careless smirk. “Absolutely. So go on.” He looks oddly relaxed as he returns to his mattress, lying down on his back. His eyes are closed. Simmons highly doubts that is a yoga position. Well, at least Grif napping is a good sign.

They only walk for a little while, just enough so that Grif won’t hear them but that Carolina can still see him when she looks over her shoulder. Which she does. A lot. “Is something wrong?” she asks when she is finally looking at Simmons.

“No. Well, yes. Otherwise we wouldn’t be…” He makes a weak gesture towards Grif, hoping she understands. No one seems like they want to say it out loud. “I was just wondering if…Well, why Grey chose you? No offense.”

He bits his lip and maybe it doesn’t look like he’s spent his entire night wondering about that question. Just maybe.

Carolina is taking her time to consider her answer, and that is probably not a good sign. “It’s complicated,” she finally says.

Simmons can’t stop himself from pouting.

“It’s not a matter of denying the two of you contact,” she continues when she sees his expression. “It’s just that my presence confuses him less.”

“Confuses him?” Simmons repeats, frowning.

Carolina looks over her shoulder again, and when she turns her head she looks thoughtful. “It’s… He’s getting better. This arrangement will not be necessary soon.”

It sounds very stiff and formal when she puts it like that, and for a moment Simmons wonders if it’s as awkward for her as it is to him.

He lowers his head as he finds the courage to ask, “Grey said you guys had some therapy sessions… I’m not prying or anything… I just kinda want to know what you were talking about…” When he looks up he sees that Carolina’s lips are pursed, and he immediately changes subject, his voice rushed, “But that would be a violation of privacy. Of course. Never mind. Fun time last night, right? Good mood and-“

“You feel left out,” Carolina concludes.

“Yeah.” He inhales deeply. “Pretty much.”

Carolina is quiet for a moment. She tilts her head and her voice is comfortingly low as she says, “Simmons, you could just go ask him.”

“Could I? I could,” Simmons concludes, but while that may be an option it still doesn’t mean he will be able to do it.  “But… Do you think he wants to?”

“Yes.”

“But… Kai…”

“Simmons, don’t tell me you are afraid of girls?” she asks, and her tone is definitely teasing. Despite the slight humiliation, it’s pretty good to hear that sort of noise coming from the Freelancer, considering what she has been through.

“ _No_ ,” Simmons snort to his defense. “It’s just Kai that… Not that you aren’t terrifying! You are super scary!” He bites his lip when he realizes he might be going in a very wrong direction. “In the good way!” he squeaks, just to save the situation.

“The good way?” Carolina repeats flatly.

“Yes. You are looking better, by the way. Very… strong.” He coughs twice and looks away. “How are you feeling?”

“As you said – better.”

“That’s good.”

“How are _you_ feeling?” Carolina asks him and he blinks in shock. He isn’t one of the persons that have been hospitalized after this whole ordeal – he shouldn’t be receiving this question.

“ _Me_? I’m good. I’m not – it’s Grif who’s…” He breathes in. “I think everyone hates me.”

“That sounds like a serious issue.”

“No, I’m like pretty sure it's really happening. With the eye and that all that… Has… Do you know if Grif hates me?” Simmons asks and his voice is weak but it doesn’t break. That’s something.

Carolina is quiet for two seconds and that’s two seconds too much, and the way her jaw moves has Simmons feeling nauseous all of sudden.

“Oh my god, he hates me,” he whispers as the realization hits him.

Carolina widens her eyes in alarm. “No, he doesn’t. It’s…”

“He thinks I hate him?” Simmons corrects himself and he wonders if that’s an improvement. He remembers the word _hate glue_ , and it echoes inside his brain, over and over and over and-

 “Things are different now,” Carolina tells him. “You need to talk with him. But not now. Grey wants us back for a follow up conversation, and we will have to meet up with Wash-“

“Is he getting out of the hospital?” Simmons asks, embracing the good news. But he wonders why he  hasn’t heard of this before, why he didn’t know, and why no one tells him anything anymore…

 “He should be soon. The wound has almost fully healed. And Grey keeps his voice trained with all her questions.”

There is a certain bitterness in the end of her sentence that makes Simmons think that she is not exactly a fan of Grey’s therapy sessions. He can understand that.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “uh, for the reason you have to go talk to Grey about your… stuff. It must have been-“

“Thank you,” she cuts him off, and while her voice is rushed it also sounds genuine. She inhales, brushing some red hair away from her forehead, before she says, “I… Simmons, you can talk with Grif. You do know that?”

“Yeah…” Grey has made that clear – they are more than welcome to converse with Grif as long as the conversation stays encouraging. “We just have to be nice.”

“Oh god, I don’t know if I can keep my face straight for another dinner like that,” Carolina says and she smiles, and he cannot help but smile back, just the slightest. It had been a disaster but, hey, that’s how all their plans turn out.

“We tried,” he says to his defense because considering how long Sarge had held back a Grif insult, it’s hard not to be impressed.

“I saw that. And I have to admit you did very well.”

Simmons reacts to praise the same way he always does – a hopeful smile and glistening eyes, and for a moment he almost forgets how he nearly died choking to death during the dinner due to his own awkwardness. “You really think so?”

“We have to go,” Carolina suddenly says, remembering the time. She is already walking back to Grif when she tells Simmons, “Find him later, okay?”

Simmons keeps his distance and watches Carolina offer Grif a hand so he can stand up. He’s close enough to hear him tease the Freelancer, “Really? I’m disappointed – thought we were running late on purpose. I was gonna put the blame on you to gain the Mad Doctor’s favor.”

Grif looks over his shoulder before walking away, and Simmons holds up his hand as a weak greeting, and then he’s disappeared down the hallway.

* * *

“Can we talk?” Simmons says, and apparently he has a death-wish because he is facing Kaikaina Grif who is currently looking at him as if he’d called her a mean bitch – something Simmons would never do now when he only has one functional eye left. He wrings his hands. “Or just me talking? And you listening? I’ll just be here, at a distance and… Please don’t punch me again. Or just… aim for the metal this time.”

“What do you want?” she asks, and he wonders the same thing. “Are you here for me to punch you again, ‘cause I have better things to use my hands for, and you’re wasting my time.”

Carolina had advised him to talk to Grif but that had been forced to wait – so now he’s gone to see the other Grif. It’s probably stupid, considering what happened the last time they had been face to face, but the word _hate glue_ is stuck in his brain and he needs to know what Kai believes, what Bitters has told her, what everyone seems to think about Simmons…

“I, uhm, wanted to thank you. For punching me.”

She blinks, still staring at him. She is in the middle of her own doorway because Simmons has been stupid enough to knock on her door but at least she opened the door dressed. Well, partly. Her yellow tank top is very, very short.

 “Did I give you brain damage?” she asks him. “‘Cause that punch was totally self-induced and you can’t sue me for shit. Also, don’t tell big bro ‘cause he only think I’d use that much strength on bastard flirting with me, and you’re not my type. I don’t date assholes. Well, I did, but he learned a lesson and sent a signal to the rest.”

“I, uh… I just… came here to say that I get why you punched me.”

 _Hate glue_ , the back of his mind whispers, and that’s right, Grif called himself that and Simmons had said nothing, just like back on the moon-

“Good,” Kai huffs. She’s so tall she’s looking down at him and it doesn’t help on the situation. “Also, the scarred look is totally in right now, so it was probably an investment.”

“Probably,” Simmons says and appreciates what might be an apology. He’s not sure but he can always hope. And at least it’s definitely not a threat. “I just want to know _why_ you punched me.”

She crosses her arms. “I know what happened at _No Man’s Land_. And I’m not talking about the lesbian bar!”

“The les-?”

“Men aren’t allowed!” she snaps at him, and, yep, she is mad again. He represses the urge to cover his left eye. “And neither are assholes, and you’re both, you dick! And, like, that’s not me saying your name – I’m talking about that tiny tail you put between your legs before running off!”

“I didn’t-“

“I know what happened at the moon, dipshit,” she says and lifts her chin. For a moment she looks proud and supercilious as if she has just won an argument, but then her eyes turn somewhat cloudy, a mix of sadness and frustration. She is biting her lower lip. “Dex is all weird now, and he isn’t drunk or anything, and I would have known if he had any alcohol. But he’s just boring and sad and he says strange things, and that’s ‘cause of you.”

 _Hate glue, hate glue, hate glue_. Simmons’ mouth is very dry and he wants to say something but his stupid jaw just falls open as he stares at her with widened eyes – well, as widened as they can be. His right eye is still swollen.

“You’re the type of boys Dex told me to ditch,” she continues. She still sounds mad but she isn’t yelling. Maybe it’s the bitter tone to her voice that still manages to sound just a bit depressed. “Bad influence, and all that, like expired booze.”

His throat hurts. “I didn’t mean to-“

“Then why did you leave?” Kai snarls. “Being alone on a planet _sucks_ , and I can testify to that with proof and everything. Can’t expect everyone to start their own super fucking awesome event company – though Dex totally could if he’d wanted to ‘cause he’s _awesome_ and stop saying he can’t do shit. And stop leaving people to die alone while you’re at it – that’s just a dick move. And not the tickling, fun kind.”

 “I- I’d never leave like that!” Simmons sputters in horror because he wouldn’t ever do that. _He wouldn’t_.

Kai doesn’t look the slightest impressed. “Mom said that too, and you don’t even have a beard so good luck finding a circus that wants your rusty ass!”

Grif has only mentioned his mom twice during the time Simmons has known him, and Simmons remembers how bitter his voice had been. It had revealed how much it must have hurt, otherwise Grif would never sound like that – he’d never been the type to hold grudges.

Simmons had left, yes, and there’s no point denying that, but that doesn’t make him just as bad. It hadn’t been a circus, it had been to save a friend. And Grif had _quit_. He’d quit before Simmons had left. It changes things – he’d started it.

Simmons shakes his head once. Twice. And one more time just to prove his point. He has to make her understand that this is wrong, all wrong, she must have been misinformed. By Bitters, probably. Because that’ s not how the teams work, even though they’re all assholes. But not such big assholes.

He holds up his hands. “No. No, no, no, no, that’s… We’d never leave anyone behind- _OH MY GOD! LOPEZ!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for this being a kinda filler chapter but I just couldn’t get it to fit with the plot of the next chapter. Hope you can forgive me!!
> 
> Also:  
> Lopez, sweetheart, I never forgot you! You were a plotpoint! Don’t you worry, darling, I’m forcing you into this story whether you want to or not!
> 
> Look, stuff sucks and I have to turn in my laptop for reparation tomorrow and I don’t know when it will be back, so I really worked to get this chapter out tonight. Hopefully I’ll be back to writing soon. Though you’ll still see me this week since I’ll be posting for the reverse big bang.


	12. Today's News

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But Simmons doesn’t crash the ship or anything like that so everything is _fine_ and the moment he opens the hatch Sarge is running outside, yelling about treachery and theft and Spanish inquisitions and unexpected events.

 “So how does it feel to rejoin the arguably _normal_ world again?” Tucker asks as he helps Wash sit down on the bench. Having just been released (rescued) from another one of Grey’s therapy sessions, Wash has agreed to spend the rest of the day with his teammate.

Instead of a bandage wrapped around his throat, the Freelancer only has to wear a plaster, and he is capable of speaking, though his voice remains hoarse. “Refreshing. A bit loud.”

“But better than the constant needle-stabbing, am I right?”

Wash sends him a gentle smile that works better now when the circles under his eyes aren’t that dark and his cheekbones aren’t that visible anymore. “Yes. I’ve missed this-“

“OUT OF THE WAY! RED COMING THROUGH! SIMMONS, INITIATE OPERATION _LOPEZO SUSPENSO_!”

Tucker sighs loudly before looking at Wash. “Goddamnit. You want me to check that out, don’t you?”

“Well, Grey said I should refrain from yelling the next couple of weeks so…”

“Of course she did.” Tucker rises from his seat, heading down what should be a calm hallway. He can see the red figures at the end of it, apparently heading towards the landing bay. “Yo, Reds, what the fuck are you doing now?”

It is Simmons he catches up with first, and the maroon soldier has gaze focused on a datapad, walking towards the hatch of a Pelican without looking up. He is still waiting for answers, and the internet on Chorus has never worked fast enough to please him before. “Dylan says she’ll keep him company until we arrive. I asked, but she wasn’t sure if he sounded angry…”

“Did he say hi?” Donut asks as he walks past him to board the ship.

Simmons shrugs. “Since when does Lopez say _‘hi’_?” The closest thing they’d get from the robot would be an _‘hola’_ but Lopez is rarely polite enough to even say such a greeting.

“Okay, what the fuck are you guys up to?”

Simmons turns his head to see Tucker marching towards them with his arms crossed. He doesn’t look pleased. Simmons is hardly surprised. “You see-“

“Lopez has been kidnapped!” Sarge bellows, cutting him off. “Stolen! Robbed of freedom!”

“We forgot him on Earth,” Simmons explains quickly, hoping Tucker can hear his low, rushed voice.

“The audacity! The betrayal!”

Simmons does not even look at Sarge. “So we are picking him up. Dylan just messaged us-“

“Wait, why is Dylan back on Earth?”

The reporter hasn’t told Simmons much in her messages, just enough to calm him down after he’d come to the realization that they are missing a member. Apparently, she’s already found Lopez, and has had the time to interview him and everything. “Well, she said she needed some final recordings for her in-depth report, so she returned with Jax to get it done. Apparently Jax wanted to try his underwater camera when he heard a Spanish insult.”

“So you are all heading out then?”

Simmons tilts his head at Tucker’s question. “Yeah, I kinda think this is a Red Team problem. For once. Should be solved soon, without any murders or sudden revelations or plot twists.”

“Dude, I’m not volunteering or anything. Just wondered if Gr-“

“Simmons!” Sarge yells from inside the ship, and his voice is loud enough for Simmons to duck his head. “Time is ticking! It’s just a question before Lopez loses all hope! So get your fax-butt in gear so we can start the rescue mission!”

He lets out the lowest sigh under his breath, and Tucker just shrugs. “Coming, sir,” he calls out and is about to step inside the ship when Tucker grabs his arm.

“Wait, if this is Red Team’s version of an emergency, shouldn’t you bring Grif?”

“We can’t bring Grif!” Simmons exclaims, horrified. Surely Tucker has lost his mind. But it won’t be the first time the Blue doesn’t think things through. “He’s just been discharged from the hospital, Tucker! And- and even if he was okay to come along, he’d still have to pair up with Carolina. And _Carolina’s just been discharged from the hospital, Tucker_!”

“Geez. Chill. Does Carolina know you’re thinking of her as fragile china?”

Simmons shifts his weight from one foot to another, and hopes that Carolina has not magically appeared around a corner to listen to their conversation. Bad luck seems to be following Simmons, so he won’t rule it out. “Well, I- They deserve a break. Even from stupid missions like this. And I’m not certain Grey wants Grif out in action like that.”

“Simmons! We are leaving in T-plus one, soldier, and that is now!”

“Good luck, then,” Tucker says, and takes a step backwards. “And, hey, when you see Lopez, tell him that the next time he takes a vacation he could at least invite the rest of us!”

Simmons finds his place behind the ship’s controls, and tries not to dwell on the fact that he’s almost comfortable with the pilot role now.

* * *

Dylan is waiting at the shore, raising a hand as a greeting while Simmons manages to land the ship. He won’t call himself a professional, but he did pass the vehicle tests back in Basic, and, well, he’s earned some experience while Grif was… _unable_ to fulfill his role as Red Team’s pilot.

Technically he’s also Blue Team’s pilot. But that’s just because Blue Team doesn't have any self-respect and never really use vehicles and therefor never really appointed a driver slash pilot.

But Simmons doesn’t crash the ship or anything like that so everything is _fine_ and the moment he opens the hatch Sarge is running outside, yelling about treachery and theft and Spanish inquisitions and unexpected events.

Simmons and Donut hurry after him and manage to stop him from yelling at Dylan. Then Jax comes strolling into the scene, the head of a certain Spanish robot under his arm.

“Lopez!” Donut squeals before snatching him front he reporter, throwing him in the air in a joyful motion before catching him again and pressing him against his chest plate in a hug.

“Dios mío. _No_.”

Simmons wonders if Lopez would slap Donut if he had the arms to do so.

“And another rescue mission completed,” Sarge huffs proudly. “Simmons, write it in the notebook, and give me an overall count.”

Simmons fishes the notebook out from a pocket in his armor plate. “Missions in general, or just rescue missions?”

“Rescue missions.”

“Only successful rescue missions, or are we also counting the ones with a less satisfying result?”

“Reds are always successful.”

“Okay, then what about the rescue mission where we called it a day halfway through because Grif makes a terrible prisoner? Or the ones were the Blues technically completed the job while we were stuck ‘cause the warthog lost a wheel again?”

“Just give me a number, son.”

“Uhm…” Simmons flips through the pages. “14 and ¾. 15 ¾ with today’s mission.”

Dylan turns around to stare at him. “I have so many questions,” she says, voice astonished. Or confused. Maybe a bit of both.

“Red Team continues to amaze!” Sarge yells proudly and takes the head from Donut with a quick motion. “Lopez! How good it feels to have my best man back on my team!”

“No. No pedí que me devolvieran. He sido traicionado.” [No. I did not ask to be returned. I have been betrayed.]

“What?” Simmons says.

“It’s super lucky he’s waterproof,” Jax tells him. “I’m pretty sure he’s gained control of an entire herd of sharks!”

“Y fueron una compañía inteligente, en comparación con mis estándares habituales.” [And they were clever company, compared to my usual standards.]

 “What?” Simmons says.

Dylan puts a hand on his shoulder. “Simmons, can I talk with you?”

“What?” Simmons says.

* * *

She leads him away from the others, towards an isolated spot where they can see the entrance to the lair and the burned-out tank Tucker left behind. Simmons realizes it’s probably not a good sign they need to be alone for this, but he says nothing and just twists his hands quietly.

The marks of the battle that once took place here are still visible: soot marks from Donut’s grenades, tracks made by the tank, sand bags that had once been used for cover.

“What did you need from here?” Simmons asks Dylan, almost without realizing he’s opened his mouth.

“Some post-battle shots. Plus I want a section about how the UNSC has chosen to cover up this whole mess. I trust they haven’t been an issue for you since we handed them the real terrorists?”

“No, they’ve left us alone.”

Dylan exhales softly. “That’s good to hear. I’ve hoped things calmed down for you since you returned to Chorus.”

“Yeah, it’s been…” He pauses. How do you describe absolutely terror and confusing and just a general feeling a shittyness? “You know.” He shrugs.

“How’s Grif?”

Simmons takes a step backwards, and almost stumbles over a burnt bag of sand. “Wha- Why would you ask that? That’s – that’s a totally weird and out of context question. Pfft. Are you taught to ask such weird questions at the reporter school?”

“Simmons.”

“Or is it called journalism school? Is it even a school any longer?”

“ _Simmons_.”

“Grif’s been in the hospital,” he finally says, lips numb and voice rushed. “He, uh, almost got himself killed. There was a minefield and… Grey says it’s something with his brain- _mindset_. But she’s working on it.”

“That’s a relief,” Dylan says and Simmons stares at her. She sighs before explaining, “I would have suggested he might seek help.”

“What do you know?” Simmons bites, and realizes it might have been too harsh. But truly; what does she know? What does she know about Grif that Simmons wouldn’t know? Grif doesn’t even like her. It was after she’d spoken with him that he’d quit.

Simmons isn’t sure he likes her either.

“Before Grif quit, I spoke with him. He expressed why he wanted to stay behind.”

“He hated us.” But not Simmons. He hadn’t said Simmons’ name.

Dylan hesitates. “He said that but… There were other reasons.”

“Which?” Simmons says, almost lunging forward to grab her by the shoulders. This isn’t what Simmons has heard. Grif quit because he didn’t like the teams. Because he found the mission useless. He came back because he became bored. Because he figured they needed him so they could hate him.

That’s _bad_.

So could this be worse?

“He told me he was very… tired of the soldier life. He sounded… Simmons, I’ve read all your profiles. I know he’s a draftee, and what happened before Blood Gulch. I think he needed that break. He sounded very sincere.”

Since when is Grif sincere? And why with _Dylan_? She’s a stranger, he hadn’t even known her for a day back then…

Simmons sets his jaw. Grif has had his reasons… that he hadn’t told Simmons about. But that’s the past. And now-

“Grey is working with him,” he says stiffly, and tries to deal with the weird uncomfortable sensation in his stomach. “Sessions and such. They… She says he’s getting better.”

“I am glad to hear that.”

They are quiet for a moment. The sun is setting in the distance. Simmons doesn’t like sunsets any longer. They seem so sad.

“Simmons,” Dylan says again and her gentle tone is unsettling. “I have to ask: do you know what Grif did while he was alone on the moon?”

“Is your article about Grif?” Simmons hisses, and hates how he’s constantly reminded of his sudden lack of knowledge when it comes to Grif. He knows he knows too little.

Dylan tilts her head. “I highly doubt he’d say yes to an interview.”

The sun doesn’t stay orange for long. Simmons watches it in the distance, focuses on it. It quickly turns red.

“He napped and ate. Until he got bored. That’s what he told me.”

“Lopez was with Locus when they found him. You know that, right?”

He nods.

Dylan looks at the sun too. “While we waited for you to arrive, I tried to interview Lopez. Not exactly the easiest task, but I wanted his view on the whole adventure, and I brought some rather useful dictionaries. He explained what state Grif was in when he was found, using some very _colorful_ terms.”

“Oh?”

“Simmons,” she says. “There is something you need to know.”

* * *

The ship is ready to leave again, but Dylan offers to distract Sarge with a bonus interview ( _“What does the color red mean to you?”_ ) so Simmons can get the chance to go on a walk and breathe and think. Luckily, Donut is occupied by letting Lopez know how much they’ve missed him while he was gone.

Simmons wanders through the abandoned lair. The UNSC have removed the bodies, but some places he can see red stains on the floor.

He continues to walk.

The orange light from the lava is suddenly far from comforting and he looks down once he reaches the spot where Grif had asked the question.

Gene died here. Probably. Well, they didn’t see the death, and judging from the countless of movies he’s watched with Grif that just means he _might_ return, but, like, he’s totally dead. He wonders if it hurt – if it hurt more than a knife to the face.

He walks until he reaches the spot where the time machine used to be. It’s gone now. Simmons stares and thinks about what he’d use it for if he could travel back to fix his mistakes. He’s made a lot of those.

Eventually he goes outside, to the top of the resting volcano. He remembers Grif’s words now, even though he’d thought nothing of them when they’d first been spoken.

It takes some time but eventually his foot catches against a dirt-covered volleyball. He wipes it clean until he can see the maroon paint.

Simmons wants to kick himself. In more ways than one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now you’re asking me: Ria, aren’t you moving out in a day? Shouldn’t you be super busy? Shouldn’t you start packing?
> 
> The answer is yes.
> 
> I just suck.
> 
> …Moving is hard, guys. So here’s a chapter made from all the writing I did when I was supposed to be packing.


	13. Rewind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmons kneels by Donut and tries not to get blood on his gloves. “Whatever, no one likes you anyway,” he yells after him, but he isn’t sure if Grif is too far away to hear him.
> 
> It’s quiet after that.

Simmons isn’t the pilot during their trip back home. Donut says something about him looking tired, and offers him a chance to rest and a facial cream. He nods and walks out of the cockpit, past Sarge’s who briefly puts a hand on his shoulder.

Dylan and Jax didn’t join them, but instead stayed on the moon to finish their project. They have their own ship to leave. Dylan said she’ll visit them soon, and Simmons has mixed feelings about that. He isn’t sure why.

The others will probably be happy to see her. Maybe. He knows Dylan hungers for more interviews, and she’s spoken of a reportage about Chorus. Maybe Kimball had begun to see journalists in a different light after all this.

Simmons heads to the quietest part of the ship where he can crouch down in a darkened corner, alongside the hidden find from the volcano. He picks up the half-burnt volleyball and wipes away the soot from the maroon.

He sits there, and thinks about Grif alone on the moon, picking up volleyballs, waiting, and then Simmons presses his eyes closed and stops thinking about Grif.

He thinks about Temple instead. Temple with blood on his visor, kneeling by his best friend, watching him die…

Dylan’s stories are still echoing inside his throbbing skull as Simmons drifts off.

* * *

Grif looks up at him, confusion shining through his visor. “Yeah, yeah, hold on one second. What happened here? W- First Donut's head exploded, and then you fainted, and then some black thing showed up and started-“

Simmons cuts him off to defend his pride. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait. I did not faint, something knocked me out.”

“Okay fine, keep lying to yourself. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

“Man, just go find Sarge. We need to get Donut outta here.”

“Yeah, sure. Oh, and uh, I'm fine by the way. Thanks for asking,” Grif says, probably rolling as eyes as he runs down the ramp.

Simmons kneels by Donut and tries not to get blood on his gloves. “Whatever, no one likes you anyway,” he yells after him, but he isn’t sure if Grif is too far away to hear him.

It’s quiet after that.

Donut doesn’t wake up, and Grif doesn’t return, and Simmons is alone on the top of the base. He doesn’t hear gunshots or shouting, which are both things he expects, and he supposes the absence of noise is a good sign. Maybe. He isn’t quite sure.

He keeps waiting for that punch to the back of his head that will turn his vision black, and he closes his eyes in preparation and it doesn’t happen.

Eventually he decides he might as well go to meet the fist in order to save time, or at least try to figure out what is going on. He leaves Donut on the roof, and the pink soldier doesn’t complain, mainly because he is still out cold.

“Saaarge?” he calls out, tightening his grip on his rifle. “Sarge? Lopez? Grif?”

He is about to turn a corner when he almost walks into the black soldier that is jumping backwards to avoid a hit. “Tex,” he says, surprised, and then he frowns because he isn’t quite sure why he knows that name yet.

He turns his head and sees who Agent Texas is fighting, and he shakes his head because it doesn’t make sense. It’s all wrong, this is not how it happened. “Carolina?” he asks, and he doesn’t get an answer because the soldiers continue to fight each other, quick and brutal punches and kicks, and they seem oblivious to his presence.

Simmons doesn’t want to get in-between them, but he feels like he has to, but in the end it doesn’t really matter since he doesn’t have the courage to move forward.

Instead he turns his head, trying to call for Sarge, and as he looks away he hears the grunt of pain.

“NO!” Simmons screams the moment he sees the orange soldier – and the pole that has gone through his chest plate, impaling him to the wall behind him.

Simmons leaps past Freelancers who remain hostile. Grif’s hands are shaking as he tries to grab the flag pole that is slowly killing him, and Simmons’ hands are doing the same, but he can’t bring himself to touch it.

It’d make it worse, right? Fasten the bleeding. It needs to stay there, and then he has to call for help so someone who actually knows what they are doing can keep Grif alive.

“Medic!” he yells. “Somebody help me!” And as he is shoved aside he thinks that maybe help already has arrived. Maybe a doctor is currently treating Grif. Carolina isn't supposed to be here but she appeared out of nowhere anyway, so maybe Simmons is allowed to have this hope.

But he looks up and sees Carolina.

“This isn’t about you.”

He freezes. Stares. Watches her reach for the flag.

Only to be forced away by a punch from Tex.

Carolina lands limply next to Simmons but he only looks straight ahead, towards Grif, and he scrambles forward.

Tex yanks the flag free. Simmons’ vision turns crimson. Grif slides down the wall.

“ _Game over_.”

Simmons wipes the blood away from his visor so he can see Grif again. Red keeps staining his vision, and the pool beneath Grif keeps growing. Simmons’ hands finds the wound and adds pressure, but it just earns a groan from Grif and a whimper from Simmons.

“Grif,” he says, and the orange helmet tips upwards to look at him, head resting limply against the wall.

“Simmons.”

He falls quiet, and Simmons holds his breath, waiting.

Grif doesn’t move again, and Simmons doesn’t need anyone to tell him the truth. He removes his hands, blood drying on his gloves.

With shaky breaths, Simmons turns around.

Carolina is still lying on the ground, unmoving.

Simmons stares at her, and maybe he expects her to get up and kill him as well, but it doesn’t happen. His mouth is dry and he tries to swallow whatever spit is left in his mouth, and he keeps glaring the fallen Freelancer. His eyes burn.

Something that is agonizingly hot but also numbing cold grows inside his chest, and it hurts, and it keeps expanding. Simmons’ breathing speeds up. It _hurts_.

Finally Carolina’s fingers twitch. She groans, waking up.

Without removing his eyes from the Freelancer, Simmons reaches for his gun…

* * *

Simmons wakes up with a bitter taste in his mouth and half-deflated volleyball hugged tightly against his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter is super short, but I’ve always kept the nightmare chapter separate in my outline for this fic, and I’m gonna stick with that.
> 
> I’ve been wanting to write this scene ever since episode 13 of s15 came out, and now, almost half a year later, I finally wrote something with it. You see, I was so sure something familiar to what happened to Biff would happen to Grif, and so I waited to see if my theory, which is so fittingly named Shish-Kebab, would happen, but it didn’t. Oh well. I’m glad ‘cause I always wanted Grif to survive. I just really had the feeling it was leading up to a mirror scene, which I suppose it sorta did.
> 
> Oh well. Here’s me promising this fic will actually have comfort. At some point.


	14. Balls in the Air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tinfoil visor is filled with disgust, staring back at him without blinking.

Carolina slams her hands on each side of his head as she backs him against the wall. He lets out a nervous _eep_. He hasn’t expected to be pulled away from the others so abruptly, being dragged down to a quiet hallway.

“I’m sorry,” Simmons says, and he is ready to repeat that sentence for the rest of his life, meaning it every time.

“I hope you are,” Carolina says in a scary growl that reminds him of when she’d just joined the group and she’d been more terrifying than ever – and Simmons had, in return, been more terrified than ever. “Do you realized what you’ve done?” she asks him, face too close to his.

“I- I fucked up,” he says, and a moment later his own words seem to sink in. Carolina is alone, Carolina is angry, and Simmons’ stomach is turning into a knot. He fights back the panic, swallowing before he dares to ask, “Where’s Grif?”

“Grey pulled him aside when he learned that Red Team apparently went on a mission without informing him – or bringing him along.”

Carolina’s voice doesn’t miss a beat, and it’s like a punch to Simmons’ already aching stomach. He’s prepared for this question. He repeated the answer to himself over and over as they left with the ship – Grif couldn’t come along because he’s sick, and it had been for his own good. It had been the appropriate thing to do.

Simmons bites his lip. “I couldn’t have brought him along, it’s-“

“Then you should have stayed,” Carolina says, sternly, and he hangs his head in defeat, knowing she’s right.

He hadn’t realized it back then, but now, knowing how Grif handled the isolation on the moon… Simmons knows, deep inside, that it hadn’t been the right choice. “How bad is it?” he asks, voice quiet.

Carolina is quiet for a moment.

He knows it isn’t a good sign.

“He said it didn’t matter,” she finally replies. She has pulled herself away now, and she’s standing a few steps away from him with her arms crossed.

There’s a moment of relief. “Oh-“ he breathes out. Just maybe…

“He’s lying.”

Simmons closes his eyes. Yeah, that’s a habit of Grif. It’s never mattered that much before. Gods know Grif is a private person about his life, except when it comes to his favorite snacks. Grif has lied a lot to Simmons. There’s a lot of stuff he didn’t say.

But Grey had been working on fixing that habit. From what Simmons has gathered, Grif had spoken during his session. Simmons might not know what Grif had been feeling – but Grey did. And despite the disappointment, that had been good enough.

And now Simmons has ruined it.

Carolina inhales deeply, tearing him out of his thoughts. “I don’t know what you two have. I don’t understand it. And I don’t think that I’m supposed to understand it but-“ She sighs, looking tired instead of angry all of sudden. “I think you both need to talk it through.”

“I talked with Dylan,” Simmons’ mouth decides to say without his permission. It comes as a surprise, both to himself and to Carolina who widens her eyes. Simmons stares at her, remembering what Dylan told him and the following dream, and just the sheer horror as he'd realized he’s witnessed a Freelancer killing a Sim Trooper with no hesitation before. Sure, Donut had survived – thank god, but…

He swallows, and Carolina is staring at him, waiting for him to continue. He regrets opening his mouth. Stupid mouth, making decisions of its own. But he could speak up – letting Carolina know that she’s the cause of-

Or he could shut up.

 “She…” he says, and considers again before continuing, “…told me to say hi.”

Carolina blinks.

Simmons swallows again and runs out of spit.

“Is she coming to Chorus?” she asks, eyebrow raised in curiosity.

“She wants to.” Simmons shifts the weight on his feet and looks down the hallway. He isn’t sure anyone heard his scared yelp when Carolina dragged him away, and no matter what, he’s a hundred percent sure they won’t come to rescue him from a pissed Carolina. Even murderous Wash had been something else. “I- I really think I should go see Grif.”

“ _Apologize_ to him,” she tells him sternly. Then she frowns, tilting her head, and he follows her stare until he realizes she’s looking at the volleyball he’s holding under his arm. “What’s that?”

“Nothing!” he says, voice too high, and it breaks, and he wants to run away before she can ask more question. “I’ll go practice all the synonyms for _sorry_ ,” he says and slips down the hall and rounds the corner, hiding from her glance.

He’s pathetic and he knows it, and he can feel the universe itself staring at him in blame. “Shut up,” he hisses at the maroon-painted volleyball. The tinfoil visor is filled with disgust, staring back at him without blinking.

He puts it under his armpit, walking the way to the hospital wing silently, until he finally opens his mouth to ask a nurse where Grif’s room is. It hurts him to know that Grif is back in the hospital because of him, but, well, he’s also the reason he ended up there in the first place.

It is surprisingly fitting to find both Grifs asleep. Kai is curled together on the couch, and Grif is in his bed with a radio playing softly on his bedtable. Simmons recognizes the melody to be the Warthog’s stupid polka song.

He smiles and thinks it’s all so stupid.

Grif has always been a heavy sleeper. It’s been a common practice for Simmons to stand in the middle of their shared room and yell Grif’s name at least twenty times before the orange soldier would grudgingly tell him he isn’t in the mood for Sarge’s missions today.

But now Grif’s eyes open the moment Simmons takes a step forward. They are wide and alert in a second, staring directly at him.

Simmons is pressing the deflated volleyball against his side, unsure of how to start. “I- Can we talk?”

Grif nods, eyes still set on him, and he silently slips out of bed. Before he can reach Simmons, his head turns to stare at Kai, snoring slightly on the couch with a half-eaten poptart in her hand, and his expression softens.

Simmons stares as her as well, and his mind is filled with an image of a sleeping bear. He resists the urge to touch his healing gash.

They leave the room to stand in the hallway, Simmons shifting the weight on his feet and Grif rubbing the back of his neck. Simmons’ eyes flicker upwards the watch the hospital bracelet that falls slightly down his raised arm.

“I-“ Simmons opens his mouth and then slams it shut as he sees a purple shade in the end of the hallway.

He cannot face Doctor Grey, not now before he’s made things right again, so he grabs Grif by the arm and drags him through the nearest door.

Which happens to be the broom closet.

Simmons’ face turns warm as he remembers another broom closet under completely different circumstances.

“This is ironic,” Grif says, looking around at the cleaning supplies on the shelves. Can he get an allergic reaction from here? Well, in any case, they’d be in the hospital anyway.

“Really?” Simmons says and wonders if gallows humor. It feels like he’s about to get hanged.

Grif’s sighs. There are bags under his eyes again. “What do you want, Simmons?”

There’s a lot of things that Simmons want. He wants Grif to be alright again. He wants to stop screwing up. He wants things to be like before. He wants things to change. He wants things to just be _good_.

 “I want to apologize,” he finally says. “A lot.”

Grif groans, rubbing his face with his hand. “Shit, Simmons, I know that. You’re like a vibrating sack of bad guilt.”

He looks down at his shaking hands. “What do you want, Grif?” he asks gently.

“Nap.”

Simmons can feel his face fall as he knows Grif is lying. To him. Because of him.

He says nothing, and eventually Grif has to say, “Stop looking like a kicked puppy, geez. Were you expecting another answer?”

Simmons continues to stare.

“Okay, look, I can tell you what I don’t want. That’s like meeting you halfway. Grey is all about that sort of crap. Look, I don’t want you to look like a piece of shit. I don’t want to feel like shit. I don’t want to be locked in the psyc wing with Grey cheering like a maniac whenever I accidently let out some stuff about my childhood. I don’t want Sarge looking at me in _pity_ , of all fucking things, and Donut offering me Kleenex while he’s crying his own eyes out. I don’t want my sister to be mad at you. I don’t want to go through this shit again. I don’t want to fight or shoot or feel scared because we could all die. I don’t like missions. They’re stupid and dangerous and either one of us die or we get caught up in some drama that just goes on and on and on.”

There isn’t much light in the broom closet. Grif’s face is darkened with shadows. He sighs.

“But I don’t want people do die. Dying sucks. For all parties involved. Maybe except the killers, but you know what I mean. I don’t want to scream about hating you all. I don’t want to feel like I don’t belong. I don’t want to quit. And then I don’t want to feel shit about quitting. I… don’t want to be left behind.”

Simmons is beginning to feel nauseous, like his throat is swollen. He keeps swallowing non-existing spit in his mouth. “I didn’t mean-“

Grif shrugs. “I know you’re sorry, Simmons. I know you’re beating yourself up. But you said nothing. And then you stepped into the ship.”

“But you-“

“I know what I did, Simmons. I also know what you did. And Grey had us talk about feelings and it was _horrible_ and I was pretty sure Carolina was one second away from trying to strangle Grey and I would have _paid_ to see how that’ll play out, Simmons, I’d pay a lot. ‘cause I’m pretty sure that Grey would win. That lady made us look at kitty pictures and talk about happiness. _Kitty pictures_. I am not mad at you. I really want to be mad at you, but I can’t. Maybe I’m just too lazy to be angry. Or Grey has this theory that I have forty-seven layers of pent-up anger against my mother that I need to go through first before feeling anything else, but that is bullshit because I haven’t felt a single thing about that woman since I was 14.”

Doctor Grey is a very clever woman but Simmons won’t say that out loud right now. He’s barely allowed to say anything. “Maybe-“

“I really want to be mad at you,” Grif finally says again. He isn’t crying or anything. His lower lip isn’t trembling like Simmons’ is. But his eyes are just sad in a way Simmons has never seen before. Like missing the last train and knowing you’ll never get the opportunity to board it again. “Because you’ve been driving me crazy for years. And now – now I’m actually fucking batshit crazy and it _sucks_. I don’t want to be stuck with you in broom closets because of some fucking temple or because we can’t have an emotional conversation in public. I don’t- _What the fuck is that?”_

The volleyball has been pressed against Simmons’ side, shielding its condemnatory visor from the situation. But now Grif is staring at it with eyes widened in horror, and Simmons has no choice but to lift it higher for them all to see.

He clears his throat, remembering why he came here in the first place. “I… I talked with Dylan who talked with Lopez. I know what happened on the moon.”

Grif inhales sharply. Then: “You… You fucking piece of shit, Simmons.”

It’s like a punch to the stomach. No, wait, it’s like one of Agent Texas’ punches to the stomach. It takes a moment before Simmons finds the air to stutter, “Wait, didn’t you just say you weren’t angry-“

Grif is shaking now: like a big tremor taking over his body as he points at the volleyball. He’s staring at it like it insulted Kai. But it’s not just hatred: Simmons recognizes fear in his eyes as well. Grif takes a step backwards-

“Why did you have to bring this back? I threw it away! I was done with it. I was fine. _Bueno_. I was over it and now you’re bringing it back and I don’t want to talk about the moon. I don’t want to hear your voice at night when you aren’t there. I don’t want to be confused about whether you’re real or not. I don’t want to see two of you at the same time and not know which one of you is real. I am trying to get better so you can all- And you’re just- _C’mon_.”

Simmons holds up his hands and the ball falls to the floor. It’s too deflated to roll away. “We don’t have to talk about it! I just wanted to let you know that I… _know_.” He knows that he fucked up. He understands. It’s like receiving an exam with the grade _F_ written with red marker, and now Simmons is past his panic attack and ready to look at his mistakes and be better and never ever fail again.

“Of course you want to talk about it! And you weren’t supposed to know, by the way, because, _surprise_ , I don’t want you to know about everything in my life. But cool, Simmons. Now we both know that you drove me mad because I needed you and I quit and _you left_ without saying a word. And you want to please Sarge and you want to have knife training with Wash so you’re prepared for the next shit life throws at us because we both know there’s gonna be shit. It won’t stop. And… I really want to be your hate-glue but I’m just so fucking tired.” He stops for a moment to inhale and then snort if bitterness. “Do you wanna know what keeps me up at night? You guys would never have returned to the moon for me. So thank god Locus picked me up, right?”

It'd been silent on the ship after Grif had left. They hadn’t talked about it. There’s a lot of things that Red Team doesn’t talk about.

Simmons doesn’t have any air left in his lungs. Doctor Grey’s voice is screaming inside his skull, telling him to be _nice_ , and then he can hear Grif telling them how he hates them all, and then there’s Dylan soft voice, saying that Grif missed them and their absence drove him insane.

Simmons realizes he lost his voice a very long time ago, and now it’s gone again.

“I’m gonna go take a nap now,” Grif says before leaving the closet. “Do me a favor and burn that piece of crap before I start talking to it again.”

* * *

After Simmons has realized what he has to do – after he has suggested the idea to Grey – after she has agreed with him – after he’s asked Kai (who doesn’t punch him, to his surprise) and she’s stared at him in surprise and cursed at him and asked why – after he’s punched a mirror – Simmons goes to Grif’s room.

He knows that it’s empty, that Grif is sleeping in a hospital bed, resting and unknowing, and that no one is waiting for him on the other side of the door.

Which makes it all more easy to break in.

The room is quiet, and Grif would hate it. The room is also perfectly clean, and the sight of the shiny floor makes Simmons’ skin crawl. Oh well. Maybe if he’s lucky, Grif will start throwing wrapping papers on the floor again. Simmons won’t be there to see it, but maybe he can ask for updates every once in a while.

Grey will probably take pity on him and give him some news if he pleads hard enough.

Simmons crouches to the ground and reaches under Grif’s bed. Usually such a thing would be terrifying – once he tried to collect Grif’s dirty clothes, and he’s still pretty sure that sock had moved by itself – but now everything seems so sterile.

A year ago, Simmons would have been happy.

His hand brushes against a stack of MREs – Grif’s hidden supply, he realizes now. A habit after being forced to organize his small supply on the moon, stealing and hiding food just in case… Simmons bites his lips and finally finds what he’s looking for.

A collection of movie discs from a movie night that never happened.


	15. Hawaiian Roller Coaster Ride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I know this entire thing is just some seriously complicated couple therapy in disguise, but, seriously, he’s my friend, too. You’re not the only one missing the orange asshole.”

Tucker disrupts Simmons in the middle of his moping.

Well, he isn’t _moping_. That would mean he’s dissatisfied with the situation. Which he isn’t.

He chose to do this. He brought up the idea. He said it was okay.

So Simmons is definitely not moping. He’s just facing the consequences, like any responsible person should. And Simmons – Simmons is responsible now. If you make mistakes, you fix them.

And Simmons has made a lot of mistakes.

Tucker sits down on the other side of the table, and Simmons lowers his head to stare at his untouched tray of food. It’s hours past dinner time. He’d figured he’d be eating alone.

But here comes the Blue, quick steps and everything, and he drops down in the seat without even blinking. Blues are annoying like that.

“Okay, so quick question,” Tucker says, rudely ignoring how Simmons is in fact trying to eat, thank you very much. You don’t disturb people when they’re eating like that. They’re busy. With eating. Even if it takes them a while to lift their fork to their mouth.

Simmons suddenly becomes aware of the fact that his own fork has been hanging in the air for seconds now, and he quickly shoves it inside his mouth. He swallows, trying to pretend the beans taste alright cold. Grif always hated beans… _Damnit_.

Simmons has always been overthinking things. Now he’s doing a bad job about _not_ thinking about things. Fuck, he’s such a mess.

It’s just hard when there are things you want to think about because you want to remember them.

Tucker taps his fingers against the table to gain his attention again. “You like Grif, right?” he asks, just like that, without any proper forewords or gentle approach.

Blues are rude like that. They don’t care about proper introduction to a conversation or, well, basic manners in general, or others’ feelings, actually. Because Simmons feels like crap now, and whatever hunger that might have helped him swallow the beans has disappeared entirely.

Tucker has now officially ruined Simmons’ dinner, only two sentences into the conversation.

Simmons keeps his head low and stares at his plate. He begins to play with a bean, using his knife as he really feels like stabbing something – or someone.

How typically of a Blue to ruin Simmons’ perfect plan about not thinking of things. Now Tucker is here, asking questions, and even if Simmons doesn’t answer it’s still too late because he thought about things, and, damnit, he wants to cry again.

But he can’t cry – mainly because he’s already lost all of his respect here on Chorus, and because he’s used every Kleenex he could get his hands on. There are probably more packages in Tucker’s room, but Simmons would rather carve out his eyes than ask for some of those.

“Well,” he says, because Tucker’s question is rather complicated. You shouldn’t just reply to say a thing with a simple word. Not when it’s taken Simmons years just to be somewhat close to an answer. “That’s… That’s a question…”

“The answer is ‘yes’,” Tucker says for him. “We all know that. Shit, we’ve been knowing for it _ages_.”

“Okay, fine, I like Grif. Happy?”

“The hell I am. If you like Grif, why the fuck did you send him away?”

There’s silence in the room. Simmons cuts a bean in half and winces when the knife scrapes against the plate. “I didn’t… You make it sound like I put him away on a farm or something!”

“Well, you sorta did.”

“It’s Hawaii,” Simmons mutters. “Not a farm. And it’s _vacation_ , Tucker. It’s not… a punishment, or anything.”

“Oh, it’s a punishment for you, clearly. ‘sides, we don’t know if he’s coming back.”

Simmons puts the fork down and pushes his tray away. He isn’t hungry. “Why are you coming to me about all this? It was Grey and Kimball who got it arranged. And Kai liked the idea and Grif- Grif agreed with it, too.”

“But it was your idea.”

“Yeah. And people agreed with it.”

“I didn’t.”

Simmons has been angry for weeks now, and in all that time the anger has been directed at himself. Now Tucker is there like a blue punching bag being thrown into Simmons’ field of vision, and he’s quick to throw the first punch. It’s a nice distraction, as brief as it is. “This isn’t about you, Tucker.”

“I know this entire thing is just some seriously complicated couple therapy in disguise, but, seriously, he’s my friend, too. You’re not the only one missing the orange asshole.”

“This is how it is, Tucker.”

“Only because you wanted it this way,” Tucker accuses him, and for a brief moment Simmons is bitter enough to wish that Wash would still be in the hospital, just so that Tucker wouldn’t be able to face Simmons like this. “He would have stayed if you asked him to!”

“Of course he would!” Simmons snaps back at him. “If I’d asked him he’d would have stayed because _I_ wanted him to do so. That’s the entire fucking problem, Tucker! I don’t- I don’t want to be that bad influence anymore. And Grif just wants to please people because he’s so…” He trails off and wishes he could find the right words to use. Instead, he just starts a new sentence. As pathetic as he is. “So, yeah, I didn’t ask him. And I’m not going to. I’ll leave him alone so I can’t fuck up again.”

“How is _this_ not a fuck-up?!”

“Because Grif can _choose_ ,” Simmons exclaims, very aware of his hoarse throat. “If he wants to come back and deal with our bullshit, it has to be his choice! Not because we guilt-trip him or- or because we ask it from him. If he wants to be home, in _Hawaii_ , he should have that choice. Finally.”

Tucker is quiet. It’s strange because the Blue usually always has something to say.

Simmons reaches out to pick up the fork again. He needs to keep his hands busy. Otherwise it’s too easy to get caught up in thoughts about what could have been done – and he can’t afford that now. Not when the choice has already been made, and when he’s already lost his last bit of respect here.

Perhaps except from Grey. She’s seemed so understand. That fact is quite comforting. She’s a very smart person, and certainly capable of judging his choices. Maybe he didn’t screw up this time.

Tucker sighs. “And what if he decides not to come back?”

The fork breaks between Simmons’ metal fingers.

* * *

Kai isn’t dumb. She isn’t smart either, but she can do this. She’s been handling her brother ever since she was born. Or maybe he’d been handling her. Probably. Who gives a shit – she’ll just do what he did, then. She can still totally do this.

The doctor lady said she should keep him engaged and never keep her mouth shut. Hah – she’s used to keep her mouth open _and_ doing funny tongue tricks. So the doctor didn’t appreciate that joke, but still. Dex always liked to talk about shitty things.

So that’s what Kai does.

The little house is very nice. Cleaner than what they had back home. The General lady told her to take good care of it, but she also told Kai to take care of Dex, so the first night Kai tore all the mattresses and pillows from the beds and carried them to the living room so they could have a movie night again. Like they used to.

Dex didn’t want to choose a movie and he hadn’t really responded to any of her suggestions so she’d put on the first M-rated film she could find and waited for Grif to scold her when the sex scenes began.

Dex is a lot more quiet now. It’s weird.

Yesterday he told her he didn’t want to go to the beach, even though it’s _right outside_ , and they can literally see the waves from the kitchen window. She almost cried – it’s not fucking fair. They used to go to the beach all the time, splashing around in the water or looking at the half-naked tourists or eating ice cream or just sitting in the sand, looking at the water.

Dex doesn’t even want to do that anymore. It’s like he doesn’t like sand. It’s weird. It’s _sand_. Maybe there had been sand on the moon. Wait, it’d been an island, right? They didn’t tell her much but they told her enough.

Kai gets mad easily. She’s mad now. Dex tells her not to get mad but it’s _hard_.

Oh well. It’s not like she can beat their asses now, anyway.

He still looks better here. Maybe it’s the heat. Everyone looks better sweaty. It gives him some color in his face.

They’re sitting in the couch now, pillows and snacks all around them, and they’re watching that sexist video they made back in Blood Gulch. _‘Reserved Dogs’_ , or something like that. She should totally had gotten a role. Hell, she’s the only one with real experience in front of a camera, even if Dex still gets pissy about it.

They hadn’t seemed like such big assholes back then. But it has been a lot of years. Like, _a lot_.

She places her feet on his thighs, watching him frown in annoyance. He doesn’t push her off, though.

“So, if I get ‘ _Choose Your Chorus’_ all up and running, your band could join. Like, Tucker and the hot lady with muscles.” Tucker isn’t that bad. She knows him, in more ways than one. It isn’t all his fault. And maybe Dex wants to go back one day. But it’s okay if he doesn’t.

“…We’re talking about Carolina, right?”

Kai bites the inside of her cheek. “Man, if you have her name, you could totally give me her number.”

“Please, do not refer to Carolina as the hot lady with muscles. It’s like challenging fate to have her burst through a wall and announce she’s going to beat you up.”

“I wouldn’t mind that.”

Dex sighs and runs a hand down his face. He looks tired. Which is weird since he sleeps a lot. He looked tired when they were kids, too, but he’d always been running from one job to another. Now he just sleeps a lot and still looks tired.

“We don’t even have a name. We couldn’t really settle on something. I mean, _The Grateful Reds_ sure beats _The Blue Fighters_ , right?”

Dex has this weird trick where he sounds happy without looking happy. She digs her heel into his thigh, trying to get a smile from him or _something_.

“Dude, ditch the colors. Not like they matter to me! And it’s pretty cliché by this point.”

“Then what the hell should we call us?”

“It’s not like you’re only described by your colors, _duh_. Just use a random generator or some shit. It’ll still beat half of the names I’ve signed up for the festival. So there was this band called _Chorus United Notes Troop_ – also known as _C.U.N.T._ ”

“Okay, do you have any idea of there’s a guy called Palomo in that band?” Dex has a little smile on his face. See, she’s good at this shit.

She pulls out her phone and starts the app. The lack of creativity. Eventually she settles on a noun – if one thing can describe the guys, it’s surely _Assholes_. Then she goes through all the random adjectives until her phone suggested the band name _Flaming Assholes_ and she’d doubled over laughing. Talk about names with more than one meaning.

Dex had even laughed a little bit too.

After dinner – which had consisted after Chinese takeout because Dex had always been a fan of those, and it meant little cleanup afterwards – Dex has to go talk to the doctor lady again. Dex carries the tablet out of the room to get some privacy. It’s okay. She knows the doctor will keep talking to him to keep his mind busy.

It’s pretty alright, she supposes. It’s easy to get used to the new routine. It’d taken a while before the doctor had sent them here. For recuperation, or another fancy word like that. But first they had to make sure Dex was okay and that he wouldn’t do anything stupid again.

She bites her lip before returning to the living room, hoping to get her hands on some of the remaining snack cakes. The TV is still turned out, automatically playing the next video they downloaded from Grif’s giant stash.

She knows not to turn it off. It’s okay. She’s learned to live with the background-noise.

But when she looks up again, she sees the video switch – going from one of the newslady’s recordings to an obviously homemade video. The recording is shaky, and the nerd’s face is too close to the camera, though he backs away once he’s pressed the button.

Kai feels the familiar anger inside of her at the sight of his face, even though he looks really tired and nervous. He _should_ look really tired and nervous.

The nerd keeps wringing his hands, face too lowered to face the camera directly.

And then he begins to speak.

_“So, uhm, this is probably a bad idea_.”

“Sure it is,” she hisses at the screen and puts some sugary snacks in her mouth.

_“But I figured you’d watch this at some point. Or, well, I figured you’d try to watch the interviews again and- and you have every right to do that, but I just thought that if you had to fall asleep to my voice, I should be saying something nicer. And not like reciting the numbers of pi – though, that is a really good idea? Probably?_ ”

She continues to chew. “Neeeeeeeerd.”

_“But this is an apology video and that’s what I’m going to do. Apologize. In the apology video. Oh gods, I should have made a script. I borrowed the camera from Tucker and- and why did he have it in his bedroom? Oh gods, I need to go wash my hands after this.”_

Kai grins as Simmons sighs.

_“Look, I know you’re mad at me, and you_ should _be mad at me, and I should probably be saying this to your face but I was afraid… Of many things, actually, but I wanted you to get home first. At Hawaii. Because I think that’s what you want. And you deserve what you want. And I don’t want to be in the way of what you want again.”_

Kai is silent now, just watching the screen with big eyes.

_“Because that’s what I’ve been doing. Right? I- You did everything to make us happy, and we- we didn’t want the things you wanted, and when you tried to get what you wanted, we just fucked you over – and I kept making the same mistakes. I don’t want to hurt you, but every time I try to fix things I fuck up. So this- this is probably a fuck-up as well, but it’s the last one. I promise. I just want to let you know that I’m sorry for making you feel like crap, all the time. And that you deserve this, Grif. You fucking deserve to go home. I know you want to go back to Hawaii, and I- I know that we keep getting into stupid shit. But you deserve to chill. And we were some assholes for dragging you along instead of listening. So just- get better. And feel good because you deserve to feel good, and it’s me who should feel like crap, and I_ do. _You shouldn’t be the hate glue. You deserve better. You deserve what you want. You’re not selfish. You never were. So just- Shit, I don’t how to finish this. Uhm… Take care of yourself. And don’t eat glowing mushrooms. They’re not good for you. Be happy. And, sorry. As in –_ I’m _sorry. You shouldn’t be sorry. I’m the one who’s supposed to be sorry and I’m sorry and- and I’m going to finish this recording now._ ”

Kai watches him lift his head, looking right into the camera with a sad smile, even sadder than his eyes.

_“Bye, Grif.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting close to the end, guys! Thank you so much for all the support!


	16. Cinnamon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I threw that damn thing in a volcano and it still managed to return,” Grif snorts. “Which just makes me wonder if we’ll be seeing Gene again. Oh well.”
> 
> “I hope not,” Simmons says, suppressing a shudder. “He’s an asshole. Which I suppose… I am too.”

Grey is the one who gives him the news first.

Simmons doesn’t believe her.

He thinks it’s another cruel joke – there’ve been enough of those – so he shrugs it off, laughs weakly and walks away. He goes to his room. It’s such a nice place to be. Quiet and peaceful. It’s easy to get things done there. Like paperwork. Or- or going through Santa’s latest statistic. Or… _stuff._

Simmons isn’t like Grif. That much is painfully obviously. Grif is lazy, and Simmons works hard. Grif doesn’t care about titles, while Simmons would bury someone to get a promotion. Grif doesn’t like vegetables, and Simmons always appreciates the flavors broccoli would add to a dish. Grif wants to please others, and Simmons keeps hurting everyone in his path.

They are opposites like… like MC Skat Kat and Paula Abdul.

Oh god, now that song is stuck in his head.

He’s just smashed his forehead against his datapad when it begins to ring. He blinks a couple of times before pressing the button to accept the incoming call.

The caller is unknown. He really hopes it’s that marketing guy again, trying to get him to buy another assurance. The last one had even covered self-inflected electronic damage, which _technically_ should include his cyborg parts. Oh well. Even if he refuses the offer – or if the salesman hangs up on him again – it’d at least give him ten minutes of conversation.

The evenings have been so quiet since…

Kai’s face appears on the screen, hair wild and bigger than ever, and her lips painted in a bright blue color.

Simmons jumps from his seat, as if he’d suffered through a jumpscare.

“ _Kai_?” he asks, and then he is filled with dread. His gash has healed, leaving him with a pink scar, but he understands if she is still angry.

But another horror spreads through his veins, cold and painful like ice, and his next words get caught in his throat. If Kai called instead of her brother…

What if Grif…? Are there any landmines on Hawaii…?

“Hey, dipshit,” she says, smacking her blue lips. “I saw your hot home-video.”

“Uhm…”

“You have to buy the ticket yourself,” she warns him. “’cause I ain’t giving you shit. You can stay for dinner, though.”

“ _Uhhhhm_ …”

“We’re having Chinese.”

Then she hangs up.

His datapad turns dark so he stares into his own darkened reflection, feeling very, very confused.

* * *

_“I take two steps forward, I take two steps back. We come together 'cause opposites attract-“_

Simmons pulls off his headphones when he spots the blue house in the distance. It looks like something from a postcard – idyllic and peaceful and covered with various flowers and palm trees.

Behind it he can see the beach, and despite his hatred of water, the blue waves look oddly attractive. Maybe it is the heat. Simmons is very aware of the sweat patches under his armpits and the redness to his skin.

The ship had landed in Honolulu, and then things had become more difficult from there. Doctor Grey had given him an address and a shoulder pat, and both of those things were _fine_ , but they hadn’t really helped him get to the right place.

He’d stared at the address and tried to pronounce the name in order to call a taxi, but he really wasn’t sure how to pronounce those vocals, and the last thing he’d wanted was to piss off a native, or embarrass himself, and Simmons latest streak of pissing off people and embarrassing himself is pretty high, so eventually he’d just started to walk.

Maybe it is a bad idea, in hindsight, since the sandals are biting into his skin (he’d been too self-aware to wear protective socks) and his arms and shoulders have already begun to get a red tint, despite the layers of sun screen he’s poured on himself.

But here he is. Finally. Sweating and red and probably looking like a tourist that has become lost.

But even the tourists had given him weird looks. Probably because of the cyborg parts that the maroon shorts and red t-shirt don’t manage to cover. Oh well. At least the metal can’t get burned by the sun.

The wooden steps creak when he walks onto the porch. There is a sunflower growing in a pot near the crooked mailbox. Simmons breathes in a couple of times before pressing the doorbell.

Nothing happens.

“Shiiit,” he hisses under his breath. This is a sign. This is a sign, right? About this being a bad idea. He should have known it’d been a prank call.

But… Well, he is sweating and sunburnt and he feels _awful_ and he really doesn’t walk all the way back to the city, so Simmons raises a hand and knocks on the wooden door with his metal knuckles.

Nothing happens.

For around four seconds.

Then the door is pulled open with so much force that Simmons reaches for his non-existing pistol that’s usually strapped to his thigh. He is like 55 percent sure he is being attacked.

But then Kaikaina Grif fills the doorway, with all her glory and broad hips, and Simmons decides that he is 70 percent sure that he is being attacked.

“You look hot,” she says.

A drop of sweat falls from Simmons’ nose. He gulps. “I, uhm… Hey.”

“Such a fucking tourist,” she snorts before grabbing his arm and pulling him inside with enough force to make him stumble down the narrow hallway. He almost falls over the amount of sandals that have been abandoned in the middle of the wooden floor, obviously creating a safety hazard. Yeah, this is definitely the place where the Grifs were living.

He looks up and realizes he’s basically stumbled into the living room. Above the couch and tv, he sees a ceiling fan swinging around lazily. It does provide a light breeze, though.

“Eat these,” Kai orders him and shoves a tray of cookies into his arms, “and wipe the sweat off your face while I go fetch my idiot brother.”

“Grif,” Simmons tries to say with the name being a painful lump in his throat, “Grif… doesn’t know?”

“If you fuck up again I’ll feed you to the sharks.”

 When she’s disappeared up the stairs, Simmons bites down in one of the treats. He chews a couple of times, feeling sugar between his teeth. It takes him some seconds before he recognizes the taste. Cinnamon along with something spicy… Perhaps. It tastes good, even if he can’t quite name the cookies.

“ _YOU DID WHAT_?”

Simmons almost bites his own tongue when he hears the yell from upstairs.

Grif definitely didn’t know he is here.

Simmons swallows the treat, savoring the last remains of cinnamon, just before Grif comes rushing down the stairs.

He almost trips over the final step, and when his eyes set on Simmons, he clings tightly to the railing.

As Grif continues to just stare at him, wide-eyed, so Simmons raises his cyborg hand in the air, waving weakly. “Hi, Grif.”

He looks different – and yet, somehow, he’s managed to look more like himself. Simmons can’t quite describe it. Maybe it is just the way Grif’s hair hangs loosely around his shoulders in messy waves. It doesn’t look like he’s showered recently, but instead of the hair looking greasy, it just seems like the salt from the ocean has made it grow even wilder.

It looks… nice. To quote Doctor Grey. Nice, indeed.

Like Simmons, he is wearing shorts, but Grif doesn’t have the same tourist vibe, not even with the orange Hawaiian shirt. His feet are bare, and Simmons watches how they go from the step to the floor, as he comes closer to him.

“I, uhm,” Simmons says, rubbing the back of his neck. Grif continues to say nothing, just staring at him like he’s seen a ghost. A familiar pang of guilt appears in Simmons’ stomach. He’s seen Grif’s glance grow distance before, back when he’d brought the volleyball with him. So without thinking further about it, he reaches out to place a hand on Grif’s wrist, “I’m here, and I’m- I’m real. Just in case you needed to…”

Simmons coughs awkwardly to clear his throat, and he looks away from Grif’s perplexed expression to stare out through the window instead. He can see the beach where the waves lazily roll towards the sand. “I know you maybe don’t want me to be here,” he says, keeping his glance low, “but your sister called me and I thought – well, I kinda thought it was best to just do what she said.”

“Oh,” Grif says, voice deeper than normally. Or maybe Simmons has just begun to forget the sound of it? “You don’t have a shiner this time, though.”

“It was probably the right choice. I mean, _it is_ , because I _want_ to be here, but I don’t know if you…” He trails off, biting his tongue so he tastes blood. He misses the cinnamon. “Should I leave? I can leave if you want me to. I just didn’t want to leave in case you… didn’t want me to.”

“I didn’t know you had sandals.”

Simmons blinks, tilting his head to look down at his feet. “Yeah… I don’t really like them, though.”

“You look like a fucking tourist, Simmons.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s not…” Grif sighs, running a hand down his face. “You look good.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Simmons rubs the back of his neck, feeling the sweat against his fingers. “I put on sandals because I thought we could, maybe, go walk at the beach? Because I figured – I figured Hawaiian had those. Beaches.”

“No shit, Simmons,” Grif says but he’s smiling.

Simmons smiles back, just slightly, and moves towards the open terrace door. He can feel the breeze from the ocean from here, and its effect is so calming that he can actually breathe easily, despite the situation. Maybe Grey should have sent Simmons on a vacation as well. Though, he really does hate the biting sun.

But it’s better now. It’d been hard earlier, at midday, when he’d been walking. But it’s softer now, falling towards the ocean.

Grif stands in the doorway, hesitating, but when Simmons bites his lip he follows him into the sand.

Behind him, on the staircase, Simmons sees Kai who is running a finger across her throat in a very clear warning.

He gulps before walking down the beach, Grif at this side.

“I threw out the volleyball,” Simmons tells him, first of all. He doesn’t mention how he ripped apart the maroon paper visor into tiny shreds he’d then proceeded to crush in his cyborg hand.

“I threw that damn thing in a volcano and it still managed to return,” Grif snorts. “Which just makes me wonder if we’ll be seeing Gene again. Oh well.”

“I hope not,” Simmons says, suppressing a shudder. “He’s an asshole. Which I suppose… I am too.”

Grif stops walking. It’s not abruptly but his steps slow until he’s standing still, his palm resting against the palm tree. “At least you have a good taste in _Star Wars_ films,” he says, facing the sea instead of Simmons.

Simmons follows his glance to stare at the waves. The sound of the waves is relaxing – and pure bladder torture. But there’s no time for such distractions now.

“Are you okay?” He looks at Grif’s face, watching him frown, but he also notices how there are no bags under his eyes. “I asked Grey for updates – I wasn’t trying to invade your personal life or anything, I just, just wanted to know if things were going in the, uhm, right direction.”

“I didn’t step on any landmines,” Grif says dryly.

“That’s good.” It’s very hypnotizing to look at the waves. Simmons can’t tear his glance away. “I get if you’re mad at me. And,” he inhales, filling his lungs to the brim, “if you don’t want to come back.”

“Dude, this place is awesome.” Grif lowers his head and kicks some sand around with his bare feet. “I just thought you guys were coming along too.”

“Yeah…” Simmons swallows. “Yeah, maybe that’s what we need.”

“Carolina might like it… Or maybe she’d prefer to punch someone instead.”

“Probably.” Simmons closes his eyes so he can turn towards the sun, feeling its heat against his face. It’s actually a pleasant sensation now, almost comforting. He bites his lip before continuing, “Though I get why you wouldn’t want a bunch of noisy idiots around you.”

“About that,” Grif says, and Simmons tilts his head so he can watch his face. “You’re an asshole. And so are the others. And myself,” Grif continues and his eyes, mismatched and warm and deep, dart around. “And- and that’s why should stick together. Like Church said…” He trails off, and they both know why. “I want to come back and be a part of that crazy mess that follows you around like a radioactive cloud or something… But I don’t want to ask you guys to slow down so I can keep up.”

“You don’t have to,” Simmons says immediately. “You _won’t_ have to ‘cause – ‘cause we should know when you need to – to slow down and eat and – and that isn’t a fat joke, I swear – but I get if you need to just do what you want to do. You didn’t sign up for all the shit we went through.”

“But I kinda did,” Grif argues softly. “It sure as hell isn’t in my job description, and don’t you fucking ever tell Sarge but –“ He groans, as if the words pain him. “Despite the whole asshole parade, we’re buddies – no, _friends_ – _no_ , buddies, I-“

Simmons sees it – the way Grif’s eyes widen, and then narrow as he focuses and panics all at once. The way he bites his lip and clenches his fists, looking all alone in the world.

Simmons reaches out and takes his hand, squeezing.

The relief washes over Grif’s expression that softens as he inhales deeply. “ _Fuck_ ,” he says, and he looks ashamed, but Simmons can feel him squeeze his hand back, grasping it as if it’s the first solid thing he’s been in contact with for a long time. “Sorry.”

“ _I’m_ sorry,” Simmons says, swallowing, “and I-“

“Shit, let’s just skip all this emotion crap, okay? I’m pretty sure Grey has gone through and categorized all feelings I’ve ever felt in my life. It’s a short and embarrassing list.”

Grif runs a hand through his hair that is longer and wilder than the last time Simmons’ saw him. When he’s stopped talking, he sits down, burying his feet and hands in the sand.

Simmons hesitates, already feeling the sand crawl inside his shorts, but eventually he mimics the action. “I doubt that,” he says, shaking sand grains off his metal hand. “The others- we all miss you.” He sees Grif widen his eyes, so he continues, “Not that we don’t support your choice about being here – we get that, and this is obviously good for you, and we can live with-“

“Simmons,” Grif says softly, and so Simmons stops himself before he can recite the whole _Supportive Friends & Family _pamphlet that Grey once gave him.

“Sorry,” he says instead.

Grif’s eyes are half-closed as he looks towards the sun in the distance. It reminds Simmons of a time in the past – the _past_ that had been the future but then hadn’t been a future anyway – and the two hours in the shade…

“I mean, this place is pretty good,” Grif says. “Pretty quiet, though. Even with Kai around.”

“…Are you sure about that?” Simmons asks, recalling a certain accident where Kai had been yelling and throwing punches. “Like, really sure?”

Grif shrugs. “So I’ve realized that maybe I’m starting to get a bit tired about sitting at beaches, waiting…” He trails off again, hands digging deeper into the sand.

Simmons wonder how many days Grif spent at the beach after they’d left him on the moon. “Grif,” he says, mouth too dry to swallow again.

Grif smiles so softly it almost looks sad. “Hell, I’m probably so messed up at this point that I need a mess in my life. And Kai going to have that big music festival on Chorus and I promised not to miss out on that.”

“You’re…” Simmons says, voice becoming lighter. “You’re coming back?”

“Yeah.” Grif exhales and lets a stream of sand fall from his palm. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

“That’s good.” Simmons can’t stop staring at him. “That you’re better. That’s… good.” He leans towards him, suddenly having the urge to reach out and find a proof that this is all real. He wonders if this is how Grif feels. “We’ll take it in your pace, alright? I promise that. I know I suck at promises but I – I promise that.”

When Grif raises an eyebrow, there’s a familiar glint in his eyes. It’s mocking and friendly and smug and warm all at once. “So if Sarge tells me real soldiers run ten laps around the base every morning, you’d tell him to shut up?”

“Well, technically, we aren’t real soldiers anymore. At least not on paper. Oh, and we don’t have a base.”

“Right.” Grif rolls his eyes. “I could probably play the sick card again. Saying that I suddenly feel like walking out on a minefield or not being sure if you’re real or not-“

Simmons reaches out, metal hand gleaming in the evening sun, and grasps the pale hand that has once, so long time ago, belonged to him.

Grif squeezes back as his breathing slows. “You look good with a scar,” he suddenly says to break the silence, nodding towards Simmons scarred eyebrow.

“ _Thanks_ ,” he snorts. “I did ask for it. Well, not really – you know I like my face.”

“I like your face too,” Grif says, words leaving his mouth with ease, as if talking about the weather, and yet Simmons is pretty sure his world just changed.

He lowers his head when he feels his cheeks grow warm, watching Grif from the corner of his eye. If Grif still needs someone to watch him, Simmons will volunteer. It’s been their life for so long, anyway, just being Grif and Simmons, with all that entails. Until Simmons ruined it.

But he’s here now, and he’ll recite pi every evening if it can help Grif sleep.

“Hawaii is- it’s pretty great,” he says.

“Yeah?”

Simmons nods. “I mean it has… it has sand that- that sticks to my toes and there’s a sun and a palm tree and water. The water is nice. It’s… nice.”

“You think Hawaii is nice?” Grif says, smiling.

Grey will be proud of them.

“Yes,” Simmons says, feeling Grif’s fingers intertwine with his. “So I was thinking… Maybe I could stay here? If- if Kai is okay with it, and _you’re_ okay with it. Until you’re ready?”

“Yeah.” Grif smiles as the sun sets in the distance, painting the sky in orange and maroon colors. “That sounds… nice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end. Thank you so freaking much for all the support, guys! It means a lot! I can't wait to see what s16 will have in store for Grif!

**Author's Note:**

> As always: English is not my native language so I apologize for any mistakes I did not catch. And if you want to scream at me then find me as riathedreamer on tumblr.


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